


Those Who Wink

by bastarddotcom



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Humor, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Rom-com tropes abound, Wet Dream, awards ceremony, shopping montage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastarddotcom/pseuds/bastarddotcom
Summary: Varric Tethras, successful smut-peddler and true idiot, has been nominated for a prestigious literary award given by the most important critic in Thedas: The Randy Dowager. Worried that the dazzling dwarf of the flowing chest hair on his book jackets will not match the flannel-wearer that he is, he must tote along his smoke show best friend, Marian Hawke, in the guise of his lover to keep up appearances as erotica's favorite sybarite. This plan would be a hell of a lot easier to pull off if he wasn't head over tit in love with her.
Relationships: Background Isabela/Merrill - Relationship, Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 60
Kudos: 77





	1. Proud to Be a Marcher

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of references to DA codexes in this one. It won't stop you from understanding anything if you haven't read them, but you'll get a real kick out of this is you're as big of a sucker for Thedas's canon lit as I am.

Varric had ever known someone who loved life as much as Hawke did.

She threw herself into everything--fights, friendship, art, ideals. She could reach for anything with two hands, grasping and scratching and biting.

She loved people fiercely, almost to a fault. She was protective, placing herself between danger and anyone who needed help, regardless of if she liked them or even knew them. She bounced Rivaini's bar, The Siren, most nights. She insisted it was for the pleasure of intimidating idiot men for money. She was intimidating: had arms the size of a man's leg and legs that could split a watermelon (an afternoon Varric would never forget), and the smile she threw as she punched you in the gut could knock you out just as easily.

Mostly, though, she didn't. She talked people out of the bar, stood in the street and held the hair of whoever she'd just bounced for being too far gone. She was known as someone you could count on for a shoulder and a favor, someone who would chuck you out on your ass one minute and promise to pummel your cheating ex in the next.

She did everything with that compulsive ferocity. 

She loved her art, showing off the deep scars on her hands and forearms, telling tales of band saws that fought her like dragons. Varric had watched her hands pull patterns out of oak and balsa, creating something new or repairing something ancient. Those same strong, callused hands that held your hand, held your drink as you cried, would be running over rough, broken things the next morning, assessing and planning and repairing.

She fixed things, made them better. It made Varric's heart swell to think how every part of her was meant to love, to fight, to fix.

A love for life as bright as Hawke's doesn't get nights off. There's always something to do, someone to help. So if getting her to turn off her head meant letting her drink her weight of horrible, luridly-named cocktails on his tab, it was the least Varric could do.

Riviani told him once that low lighting made people hungrier, lowering their inhibitions and making them care less about what they bought. And so the counter was the only well-lit place in The Siren, and then only by dim wall sconces and a flickering POS. Everything else was table candles and low-hanging lanterns. Little corner booths with practically no light to see by. And everything was made somehow darker by the low beats of the song now indicating closing time.

Varric was settling his tab, squinting at the numbers to check the damage. They'd been there for hours, and it looked like they'd be the last ones out. Nora (scalped from The Hangedman when Riviani opened), was pointedly counting cash. He tipped 50%, because what good was being a successful smut-peddler if he didn't? He slid the receipt back to her and she took it, glancing at the hefty tip without a blink. 

Varric turned, watching Hawke and Anders in the middle of the empty dance floor. They had their foreheads pressed together, Hawke holding the back of Anders' neck.

"Listen to me," she shouted as if trying to be heard over the music that had already been turned down almost inaudibly low. "Li-sten to me, Anders. You are the smartest motherfucker in this city, do you know that?" 

He shook his head, shoulders shaking. 

She used the grip on his head to force him to nod. "You are. And you know what? You've got the biggest damned heart, you are the _only_ person who can do what you do. You're so _needed,_ Anders." 

He was fully crying now, swaying drunkenly in her arms.

"You are _wanted._ This damn city doesn't deserve you. I don't give a shit what happened before you got to Kirkwall. Anders." She made him look at her. " _No one_ gives a shit, as long as it made you the man you are. Whatever you were before, you left that in Ferelden. And the man you are here? Is a fu-cking he-ro." She annunciated as if trying to explain something simple to an idiot, making him laugh. 

"Yeah," he sniffed, after a moment. 

"Yeah?" she said, letting him go. 

"Yeah," he said, forcing a wet smile back at her. 

"Hell yeah!" She gave him a friendly slug to the shoulder, making him stumble. "There's my best little medical anarchist." She turned back, stumbling in the direction of the bar. To Varric's eye, it was the gait of a woman who did not know how drunk she was until she decided to walk.

"Nora! Nora, one more for the road!" 

Nora had wisely disappeared to the back of house, loading the dishwasher loudly. 

"Nor-aaa," Hawke shout-whispered toward the door to the back. She leaned on a stool as if to reach behind the bar herself, but her knee slipped on a spill. Her ribs met the stone counter with a thud and she lurched over, but Varric caught her before she hit the floor.

"You remember you work here, right?" he said. "Hard on the paycheck if you get banned."

She looked for a moment like she was going to fight him, but she just leaned her cheek on the top of his head, mumbling something about "employee of the month."

He slid an arm around her waist to keep her upright. "Ready, Blondie?"

Anders rubbed a hand over his eyes and nodded, taking Hawke's other side. Together they stumbled out, the door clicking locked behind them.

The rain from earlier in the night had left the gutters fat with water, rushing trash and leaves into the storm drains. The little rivers caught the light of the city, making plastic wrappers and broken glass glitter prettily.

He felt Hawke lift her head and sigh. "I love this fucking city, boys."

Maker, Anders always turned her into a pensive drunk.

"KIRKWALL!" she shouted into the sky. "I LOVE YOU!" She angled her head over to Anders. "I wasn't shit before Kirkwall, you know."

"'s not true," mumbled Anders.

"And now you're just shit," said Varric. 

Anders looked over Hawke's head at him, aghast, but Hawke laughed until she nearly knocked them all over.

"Yeah but I'm _better_ shit now though, aren't I? Happy shit!" She threw Varric a sloppy grin.

"You're not shit, Hawke," said Anders.

"Oh, yes I am! How dare you? I'm just as big of a shit as this city, steamy and smelly and full of LIFE." This last echoed through the street. "Especially the steamy part, am I right boys?" 

She did a little wiggly saunter between them, making both of them laugh.

They walked on for a while, tripping toward Varric's apartment. This was their pattern. Whoever came out would walk back to Varric's, they'd have another drink and maybe a hand of Wicked Grace, and Hawke would pass out for the night before everyone else went home. They were so used to it that everyone called the sofa "Hawke's couch."

Varric was surprised that in all these years, no one had ever finished the night by picking her up with a fond "I'll make sure this one gets home." No one ever claimed to be the one to take care of her, and though they all loved her in their own ways, no one person had ever really taken it upon themselves to be a partner to her. Except him, he guessed. But that's why you had lots of friends but one best friend.

They were nearing Varric's stoop when suddenly Anders stopped, making them all stumble in their little huddle.

"You know, Hawke?" he said. "You were right."

"Yes," she said, eyes drooping. "About what?"

"Kirkwall," he said.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Yess! Kirkwall!!"

"Kirk-WALL!" he shouted. "Neither of us would've done all this anywhere else."

She nodded at him seriously. "Best city in the world," she said. "Varric, isn't it the best city in the world?"

"It's definitely the best city in Kirkwall." Varric tugged them on.

She ignored him, turning back to Anders, who was looking misty-eyed into the sky.

" _Well I'm proud to be a Marcher--_ " she sang.

Anders picked up the song in a yell. " _CUZ AT LEAST I KNOW I'M FREE._ " 

The two of them hollered, harmonizing like cats in heat. " _AND I won't FORGET THose WHO DIED--"_

 _"And gave MAGE RIGHTS to me!"_ interrupted Hawke, using the arm draped over Varric to point at Anders, who laughed hysterically. 

" _And I'll gladly stand UP, NEXT TO YOU, AND nununuh hunununuh. CUZ I'M PROUD nunhunuhhhuh MAKER KEEP THE FREE. MAR. CHES!"_

"You're both Ferelden!"

It didn't stop them from mumble-shouting the rest of the lyrics.

Finally they reached Varric's stoop. Anders flopped onto the steps, pulling Hawke with him. Varric's eyebrows shot up at the way Anders' arm wrapped her close as he settled her next to him. 

He hurried to the fiddle with the door, trying not to look like he was listening. He didn't want to have to fight the guy, but if Blondie even looked at Hawke in a way she didn't like, Varric would gladly deprive the city of its prettyboy anarchist.

Denim scraped across cement as Blondie shuffled close to her. "You know, you're an amazing woman, Marian."

"Haha, yeah," said Hawke. Varric heard the smile leave her voice. She hated her first name.

"You're so beautiful," he heard Anders hush to her. "So strong, Maker, look at your arms. You're so much stronger than me. You hold us up out of the darkness, all of us. You hold me up. It feels so good to be held, for just a moment. To trust someone enough to know they won't let me fall."

"Yeah, and I don't even work out!" she dodged. "All this? Kirkwall's best ruffians."

Out of the corner of his eye, Varric caught her reaching over her shoulder to give Anders his arm back. 

Varric kicked the door to unjam it, making both of them jump. "Coming in or heading home, Blondie?" he said.

Anders looked back at Hawke, who was already standing and dusting herself off. Her face was set in careful neutrality, already putting a step or two between them. 

Anders watched her a moment, before smiling and waving them away. "I just need to have a sit before I hobble back. You both go on."

"Don't pass out outside of my building, Blondie."

"You want some water or anything?" said Hawke, climbing the steps up toward Varric.

"No, thanks," he said, watching her walk away.

"Alright, g'night then."

"But. Hawke?"

"Yep?"

"Thanks."

"Yeah mate, no problem."

"No, for everything." He threw her a wistful smile. 

"It's no problem, Anders," she said. "'Night."

"'Night."

"'Night!" said Varric, glancing between the two of them. Hawke scurried through the door and he shut it behind her.

"What was that?" he mouthed at her.

"I don't know!" she mouthed back. They went down the hall to the elevator, Hawke only having to catch herself on the wall a few times. When the door slid shut, they rounded on each other.

"What the fuck!" she said.

"What did you guys talk about at the bar?"

"Just him! Like, the clinic. He was thinking about giving it up because he thought it wasn't making a difference." She sighed.

"Well that's stupid."

"That's what I said! So I was trying to pour some liquid confidence into him, maybe shout him into some self-worth."

"Mm. Too much confidence," said Varric as they stepped out of the elevator. 

"I guess!" she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Andraste's tits."

Just because no one had locked Hawke down didn't mean there hadn't been interest. Fenris, Sebastian. Hell, even after Rivaini and Daisy got married they made it known that Hawke was " _always welcome"_ at their place. But Anders had always seemed more interested in friendship. Varric remembered he had been flirty at the start, but as soon as he got to know Hawke he'd reigned it in.

Not that Varric kept overly close tabs on her love life. At all. It's just, with a group as close as theirs, it was hard not to pick up on things. And hey, if he was keeping a slightly keen eye on the developments, well that was just the concern of a friend. And if the concern of a friend sometimes felt like relief when Hawke turned down someone's advances, then… that's just how it was.

When they reached his door she leaned her face against the wall as he struggled with his keys.

"Gross," he said.

"Mm," she groaned into the tile. "Cold."

Varric hadn't seen her like this in a while. She was usually a sleepy drunk; occasionally a flirty one. But the stupor she'd been cultivating throughout the night had turned her maudlin. She gave him a weak smile as he opened the door for her.

His building was nice, nicer than anywhere he'd lived before. Walking through the hall, he still felt like he'd taken a wrong turn and would be asked to leave. But Hawke, who still lived in the holiest of shitholes, just strode through his Hightown digs without even bothering to lower her voice.

Inside, Varric's loft was all leather sofas and heavy blankets. The windows were shrouded in thick red curtains, walls lined with cabinets full of sentimental detritus. Huge, overstuffed bookshelves were everywhere, with more wall-mounted shelves scattered around. He even had a shelf tucked into the corner of the kitchen, crowded with thumb-print greased books on Ferelden cooking, home-made pickles, and 101 things to do with spindleweed. 

He pointed toward his bedroom down the hall. "You want me to grab you a pillow?"

Hawke scrunched her lips guiltily. "Are you tired?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you not?"

It was like this sometimes, when it was just the two of them. The bluster slipped. Her shoulders, usually so squared and ready, drooped. They would talk through those nights until it was time for breakfast, and then she'd go. Next time he saw her, every wall would be back up, braced against the world. It bothered him, knowing that beyond those walls she was tired and hurting.

She shrugged, running a hand over the blanket thrown over "her" couch. "What's there to drink, Master Tethras?"

"I actually got something new in," he said, moving to the kitchen. Hawke followed behind him, hands dusting over the shelves. "It's called water, I hear it's pretty good for you."

Hawke groaned, leaning against the door jam as he pulled her a glass from the sink. 

"Tap?" she said. "Aren't you rich?"

"Where's your patriotism now?" He handed her the glass, pouring another for himself. "Kirkwall's finest!"

"It'll give me Kirkwall's finest kidney stones," she griped, taking a swallow. He smirked at her over the rim of his glass. They stood there for a moment, enjoying the stillness.

"It'd give you an excuse to go see Blondie, at least," he said, taking a gulp.

She screwed up her face. "Ugh. Can you imagine? 'Hi, remember the other night when you made a very sad and vulnerable pass at me? Anyway, about my urinary health.'"

He put on his best Anders lilt. "'Sorry about that, I didn't mean anything by it, haha. Will you piss into this cup for me then, fire of my loins?'"

She laughed, rolling her eyes.

He shrugged. "A person can't help their fiery loins, Hawke."

"I'm so sick of everyone I like making puppy-dog eyes at me," she sighed. "Can't you just love your friends, maybe be a little nice every now and then, without people tripping over themselves around you?"

"Most people do," he said. "Not you, it seems. Does this complete the set?"

She thought for a moment, finishing her water. "Everyone but Avaline, but I think she's just straight."

"Shame," said Varric.

"Not really. I don't date cops."

"Rational," he said. He took her glass from her and put it in the sink. "Everyone possible then. There has to be some kind of award for having every single one of your friends mooning after you."

"Except you," she said, her back to him as she opened the fridge.

He downed the rest of his water, putting his glass in the sink beside hers. "Except me. Hungry?"

"Not really," she said, picking up an old take-out container. She smelled it, looking doubtful as she held it up for him to check.

He sniffed. "Probably fine."

She grabbed two forks and headed back into the main room. He followed her, clicking on a few lamps as they went. "You've got a whole slew of options set out for you, Hawke. Nothing tempts you at all?"

They settled onto her couch, the take-out between them. "I don't know, fried rice just sounded good," she deadpanned. 

She held a hand under her fork as she ate, eyes scanning the bookshelves.

"You reading anything good?" she said.

He sighed. "Not really. I just finished this big Uccam anthology and it really took it out of me."

"Ugh. Dryyy," she mock-rasped.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But there's some gold in here too." He reached to where he'd left it, tucked into the chair next to the couch. 

It was a new edition, with just some vague public-domain painting on the cover. He flipped through to the sticky note he'd left on the poem he'd liked, thinking to show it to Hawke eventually. "Listen to this, it's werewolves, you'll love it."

A small smile pulled at her lips as she settled deeper into the cushions.

He cleared his throat. 

" _Thus was a bargain struck,_

_And Dane the wolf pack served in wolfen form,_

_And the werewolf to his family sped, as Dane,_

_One year and a day all told._

_But some things cannot be repent,_

_Some coinage cannot be unspent,_

_When hearts are wagered, a fissure rent_."

When he looked back up at her she was squinting at him.

"No, I hate that."

"It's werewolves!"

"Yeah and still it's dryyy," she rasped. "'One year and a day all told.' Told who? I hate arbitrary magic rules. You're setting up a fantastical myth and there's still rules I have to remember? Exhausting."

"Did you hear the part about 'some coinage cannot be unspent, / when hearts are wagered, a fissure rent'?"

"And should it be 'repent-ed'?" she asked through a mouthful of rice. "In the line before?"

He glanced back down at it. "Maybe."

"There's so much like, really beautiful historical poetry. I don't know why you waste your time on the 'classics.'" She opened the Books app on her phone. "Listen to this…"

Varric let his head fall back onto the cushions, his cheek against the blanket he usually left out for her. It smelled like her, he thought, that warm sweet smell of wood, fruity shampoo, and cigarette smoke ("Only when I'm stressed!" she'd defend.). 

"I found one this translation of The Ballad of Ayesleigh, listen to just the last stanza of this fucking thing. ' _When darkness comes / and swallows light / heed our words / and we shall rise_.'" 

She threw her hands up, shaking her phone at him. "Varric! Ugh!"

"Yeah it's really good," he said, biting his lip to hold back a laugh.

"It's _so_ good. And this is from the Exalted Age? What a shit age! And still it's so beautiful!" 

"Yeah, a lot of war crimes and demons in the Exalted Age."

"And this is so beautiful! So sad, but so hopeful! Not hopeful, is there a word for like, knowing that you'll be victorious, even if you won't be alive to see it?"

He shrugged.

"It's beautiful, anyway," she said, locking her phone. "Makes me want to get crazy with some time magic or something. Figure out some Fade jukes so that I can go fight in the Fourth Blight myself."

"You gonna go enlist with the Wardens now?"

She shuddered. "So many rules. Carver can keep them. I'll just pop back to the Exalted Age and crash a battle or two. Maybe steal a griffon on the way back."

He nodded, mouth full of rice. He knew he was smiling at her like an idiot, but if she noticed at least she didn't mention it.

"See, that's so much prettier and more meaningful than your dumb werewolf thing," she said, taking the book from his hand and tossing it back onto the chair. Her fingers were somehow warm, despite the chilly night.

"You're right," he said. 

"I am right," she nodded, putting the empty styrofoam box on the coffee table. She turned her body toward him as she settled back, her head falling to the blanket to mirror his. 

"Do you think people will still be reading your stuff in the next age?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said. "People always get a kick out of ancient smut."

She rolled her eyes. "No, the real stuff."

"That is the real stuff." He gestured around the loft. "This is the house that porn built."

"And good porn it is, too. It's not all you are though," she said. "Did you end up pitching that one book to Cassandra?"

He shook his head. "Narrative nonfiction doesn't really fit the Varric Tethras brand, does it?" 

His publisher and agent had cultivated a persona for him when his romance serials started taking off. He was supposed to be this suave dwarf with a ten inch bulge and chest hair abound. He'd even frozen his ass off at a photoshoot on Sundermount in a flimsy, low-cut ruffled shirt for the portrait on the book jacket. 

Needless to say, he did not write with a leather notebook on his knee as he gazed across a misty lake. He wrote on the same laptop he'd had for five years, on the sofa in his boxers, covered in all the sunflower seeds that hadn't made it to his mouth.

"No no, I think it would help," she said. "A look behind the chest hair. If all the college students and Chantry sisters knew you were sexy, poetic, _and_ real? You'd be rolling in it."

"What, money or sex?"

"Both!"

He laughed, making her smile. 

"Sexy, huh?" he teased, after a moment.

"I've heard," she shrugged, glancing out the window. "You got any more of that water stuff?"

They passed a few hours like that, talking nonsense and sharing stories. 

Hawke told him that she was worried that she wasn't making anything of herself; all her friends were establishing their careers, getting married, changing the world. All she did was whittle chairs and beat up drunks, she said. Varric reminded her that all those successful idiots were the same people who turned to her when they needed help, himself included. 

Varric told her about an email he'd gotten from Bianca the week before, ("From her work email, which is inscrutable.") letting him know that she'd be in town for a few days. It was the first time he'd heard from her in almost two years. He told Hawke that he'd stared at the email, taken a shot of whiskey, and told Bianca to enjoy her trip. Hawke gasped like he had said he'd beat cancer, and gave him a proud smack on the shoulder.

Eventually they fell into silence, watching the sky brighten by degrees as the sun rose behind the buildings.

"What day is it now?" asked Hawke, voice fried.

"Tuesday, I think."

"Nooo," she whispered. She checked the time on her phone and looked at him. "I've been awake for twenty-one hours, Varric."

"Oh shit."

She scrubbed her eyes with a hand. "Merrill wants me to come by the museum today to see if I can fix the arm on this ugly ass, stupid ass thaig relic."

"Just take the day off, Hawke. It's waited for a few ages, it can wait another day."

"No, Merrill asked me to," she whined. "I can't tell her I'm flaking, she'll be so damned understanding."

"Well," he said, pulling out his phone, "as an ugly ass thaig relic myself, allow me."

He stood, pulling Hawke's socked feet to rest where he'd been sitting. He tugged the blanket down from the back of the sofa over her. 

"Hey," she said, already pulling the blanket up to her face. "Hey, don't. I can still go." 

He went to grab a pillow from his bed, dialing Merrill with one hand.

"Hey Daisy," he said, loud enough for Hawke to hear. "About Hawke…"

When he hung up (promising her that Hawke would come by as soon as the swelling went down and the projectile vomiting ebbed) Hawke was already asleep, her face stuck to the leather armrest. He peeled her cheek away far enough to slide the pillow underneath her head.

He huffed a breath, just looking at her.

Her jaw fell slack, lips parted and a little chapped from talking all night. She was drooling. Varric brushed her hair away from her face so she wouldn't wake up with a mouthful. He just pushed his fingers through it for a moment, making sure it wouldn't flop back, enjoying how soft it was. 

Maker, he had it bad. 

He took the empty take-out container, throwing it away and putting their forks in the sink, and slunk off to his room. 

He yanked the blackout curtains on his window shut, hoping to sleep through most of the day. He pulled himself out of his clothes and just flopped onto the bed, too tired to even get under the sheets. 

She was right. Each of their friends held a flame for her, to varying degrees. 

He knew himself how hard it was to be on the receiving end of her too-tight hugs and laughing eyes, and not get a little dreamy. Hawke was brash, brave, impulsive, often self-destructively so. She would throw herself at anything, fighting and kicking and yelling the world into being better, safer for the people she cared about. 

Hawke didn't need dreamy. She didn't need someone putting all their hopes on her, wanting her to share their life. They all wanted so much of her. It was too much to think of asking for her heart too. 

She just needed someone to hug her too tight, to make sure she had something to laugh about, and to let her be who she was. He tried to do that for her, at least. The dreamy parts, the wanting, he could keep to himself. He could do her that favor.

He drifted off after a while, thinking of her laugh, and hating himself just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't write either one of those dang poems! They're both from codexes you can find in DA: Origins. Varric's is "From the saga Dane and the Werewolf, as recorded by the minstrel Uccam, 4:85 Black," and Hawke's is "From the Ballad of Ayesleigh, said to have been written after the Battle of Ayesleigh, which ended the Fourth Blight, 5:20 Exalted." You can find the whole version of either of them on the wiki, though the Uccam is truly dry. You've been warned.
> 
> Also! If you're unfamiliar with The Randy Dowager, she's a canon literary critic. If you look up any of the codexes I tell you about, look up any of her reviews. She's hilarious.
> 
> Most of this is written already, so expect a few chapter dumps now and then. Writing this has been a real treat, so thanks for indulging with me ;)
> 
> (psst, I'm currently looking for a beta! hmu if you're interested!)


	2. Bad Timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has a wet dream, Varric gets some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahoy.

Hawke drifted vaguely back to wakefulness as she heard Varric putting their dishes in the sink. She listened as his bedroom door clicked shut. 

She was exhausted. This is exactly what she needed, she thought. This blanket, this couch, and a good six hours of sleep. Eight, even, if she was greedy.

She inhaled deeply, her body finally coming to rest. She cracked her toes under the blanket and turned on her side, hair falling across her face, face smashed into Varric's pillow. She took another deep breath. Salt and dust, camomile soap. She smiled faintly. Fancy rich writer soap, she thought.

She drifted a bit, letting her mind linger on his honey warm smile.

She opened her eyes into an empty parking lot. It was night, and she stood in the light of the only streetlamp. There were a few shifting lights on the horizon. Maybe a city.

"Hawke," came a voice.

She looked. It was Varric, in the shitty bodice-ripper outfit that he wore in the portrait on the jackets of his books. He had something in his hand. It looked like a glass of wine, and then it looked like a book, and then it looked like a small cat. As her eyes settled on him, he wasn't holding anything at all.

Oh good, she thought, a dream. Fine so far. No spiders.

"Hey Fade Varric," she said.

He rolled his eyes at her, coming closer. "Could you just let this be all cryptic and meaningful? Is that so much to ask?"

"Depends how cryptic. Were you holding a cat just now?"

They both looked down at his hand, where a little white kitten was blinking up at them.

"Yeah," he said.

She took it from him, placing it down on the cement, where it turned into a large leather sofa with a white blanket on it. 

"Oh, nice!" she said, hopping onto it and wrapping the blanket around her. "I can be double asleep. I've never been double asleep before. What a treat. I'm sorry you can't dream," she said to Fade Varric. "I bet you would love being double asleep."

"That's alright," he said. "Just singular asleep seems to get the job done." As he sat down next to her, the sofa turned into his bed.

"Oh," she said. She'd been in his real bedroom before, obviously, even slept in it a few times when he was out of town and she crashed at the loft. The familiar wallpaper crept up invisible walls around them, complete with wall clock and paintings where they belonged.

"Haha, cool," she said. "What's the meaningful, cryptic--"

When she looked back at him Fade Varric was leaning back against the headboard, watching her with lidded eyes. His book jacket outfit had disappeared, leaving only the bunched up sheets protecting his Fade dignity.

"Oh heyyy," she breathed, taking him in.

"Hey," she tried again. "Hey, if you're a desire demon you have to tell me. That's the law."

"Why?" he said, the sheet rucking up as he shifted down the length of the bed to sit behind her. "Are you… desirous?"

She giggled as he started kissing up her neck. Oh, she thought, feeling his hands playing against her ribs, now she was naked too. Handy old dreams. 

"Not a demon then. Not smooth enough."

He kissed her shoulders as she leaned back into him, reaching behind her to cradle the back of his head. His hands ran over her gently, cupping her breasts, smoothing over her stomach. He crooked one arm around her to pull her tighter against his chest.

"Do you want me, Hawke?" he said against her ear, making her shiver.

She swallowed. "Buy a girl some Fade dinner first, why don't you? Not a  _ very  _ cryptic dream, is it?"

He huffed a laugh, his breath warm against her neck. 

"Do you want that?" he said. "Do you really want some weird, visual metaphor about wants and needs? Something with your teeth falling out, maybe?"

He pushed his hand down toward her thighs, nosing at her jaw. "Or do you want to let me cryptic you right now, while you have the chance?"

"I really need to learn some better lines," she said as she took his wrist and led it between her legs. He spread her, two callused fingers playing over either side of her clit.

He moved lower, dipping a finger into her. "Maker you're wet." He pushed further, stretching her open.

She nodded, eyes screwed shut as her head fell back against his shoulder. He licked, nipped at her throat as he slowly fucked her with his hands. "So good," he was whispering. "You want this, don't you Hawke?"

She nodded frantically, and suddenly he was below her, head between her thighs and grinning up at her. He nipped at each of her hips before burying his face between her legs.

"Fuck," she gasped, bucking up into his mouth. He chuckled into her, the vibrations of it making her groan. He licked into her like a starving man, shrugging her legs over his shoulders. Her ankles dug into his back as his fingers joined his tongue, fucking her as he sucked roughly at her clit. He was breathing heavily, taking her, and his breath over her wet cunt made her shiver even as she began to climb.

She gripped his hair, yanking him further into her. "Varric, fuck," she groaned. "Please, I need--"

He hummed, sounding desperate himself. He grabbed her hip with a hand, holding her down as he licked into her. She was shaking already, gasping out at the way he redoubled his effort as she pulled at him, hips struggling against him. "Maker," she whispered. "Please, please, please  _ Varric _ ," she cried, shattering under his tongue, ripping at his hair. He was moaning along with her, drinking her down like a privilege. 

She had somehow doubled up against him, leaning halfway from the bed, which now turned back into "her" couch. She slumped back again, head falling against the pillow he had given her. Her hands were still trapped in his hair, so soft and wet with sweat under her fingers. She could feel warmth against her face, the shadows of trees dancing over the warm glow of the sun over closed eyes. 

She smiled, relaxing her fingers from his hair, blinking her eyes open to look down at him. 

But there was only the blanket that the real Varric had pulled over her, bunched up tight between her legs. The softness of his hair turned into the fabric of the blanket, the moisture she felt on his brow only her own skin.

She snatched her hand back from between her thighs like she'd been burned.

She threw the blanket away from her, scanning the room for signs of the real Varric. Maker's gleaming hole, she hoped she hadn't made any of that noise out loud. She spotted her bag by the door and considered dashing from the loft entirely, taking the blanket (now wet in places) with her. Maybe it wasn't too late to use Merrill as an excuse to run off.

She just needed her phone. She patted the couch around her, wiggled her hands between the cushions.

By the grace of blighted Andraste, she heard a buzzing on the coffee table. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling with the slight headache it gave her (bless Kirkwall's finest tap water), and made a grab for the phone. 

Her hand hovered above it. "Seeker :)," read the screen. Only then did she recognize Varric's sleek black phone case, drastically different from her own chipped plastic one.

She wasn't sure what kind of emergencies you got in the authoring business, but by the way Varric described her, Cassandra would rather resort to carrier pigeon than talk to him directly unless the sky was truly falling down.

"Shit," whispered Hawke, snatching up the phone. She'd never actually met Cassandra, but Varric painted her as blunt, sour, and frighteningly perceptive.

She glanced at Varric's bedroom door. Maybe she could just throw the phone at his head and run. She padded down the hall, listening for signs of movement.

He never slept with the door fully shut. Something about not all dwarves liking enclosed spaces.

"Varric," she hissed, keeping her face turned so she couldn't see beyond the gap in the door.

Nothing. The phone stopped buzzing in her hand. She hesitated, considering just putting it back on the table and leaving. 

It buzzed again. "1 New Voicemail." 

It could be important, she thought. It was past noon, by the phone's clock, and he had a novel's-worth of notifications built up on his lock screen, most of them looking like texts or emails from Cassandra.

She was sweating, blanket still bunched up under her arm. She'd been the one to keep him up all night and miss whatever was happening. It looked like something big, judging by the sheer volume of notifications. 

She heard the springs of his mattress creak as he rolled over. She sighed, squaring up.

"Oi," she said. "Phone."

There was a rustle and a murmur behind the door. "Mm?"

"Phone," she said. "It was Cassandra."

She heard him groan, the bed creaking as he stood. He pulled the door the rest of the way open, squinting up at her, then to his phone in her hand. He was down to his boxers. Cool, she thought. Cool cool cool.

She had always thought that Varric was, to say the least, good looking. Beautiful, even. Undeniably attractive, objectively. The jaw, the eyes, the shoulders, the… whole deal. She had just woken up from a wet (drenched) dream about him, for fuck's sake, even though she was the last person who should allow herself to think about him that way. Too messy and not smart enough to be with him by a mile, she thought, and she knew she wouldn't be able to just tumble her very smart, kind, thoughtful, searingly hot best friend and walk away. She wasn't what he needed, so she did them both a favor and kept her eyes to herself.

Which was a hard resolution to keep when he was stretching the length of his body and groaning as he was now.

"No respect for the dwarf's sleep," he yawned, taking the phone. His skin against hers was warm from sleep. He walked back into the room, leaving the door wide enough for her to follow.

"Looked important," she said, caught in the tide of him. Maker, was his room always this dark?

He shrugged a gesture of "not your fault," as he listened to the voicemail. 

He winced, holding the phone back from his ear as Cassandra's voice came through in a yell. Something something, "email," something something, "unprofessional," something something, "little shit." And a slam. It's impressive to end a call with a slam with no reciever to slam into. She must have nearly broken her phone in half.

He groaned, looking at his phone like it had gone rotten. "Well, shit."

"What?"

"I'm nominated for a Dowager."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's gonna be like that.


	3. Desirous Undesirables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Hawke get donuts, Isabela gets an idea.

"The Randy Dowager '' was the most read weekly article in L'époque Orlésienne, Thedas's most-read weekly newspaper. It was a literary review section, allegedly written by one woman, Madame Guillemette Duchamp, who went exclusively as "The Lady." She was old money, though only because she herself was old and made a lot of money. She was rich, powerful, infamously fickle, and she could shatter Varric's career with a word.

The Lady had covered many of his books to blindingly complimentary reviews, once even using his name to disparage another author: "A fine effort," she'd written, "but certainly not a Tethras." The poor sod's book hadn't even printed a second edition. 

He wasn't too proud to admit that it was The Lady's high opinion that had made his career what it was. Varric Tethras the man was a damn fine writer, but Varric Tethras™ the product wouldn't exist without The Lady's endorsement. 

He'd never met her, their only interaction being through his publisher. They'd been the ones to spin his image as a mysterious bodice-ripper type, and The Lady had gobbled it up and elevated it in her articles. 

Usually the facade suited him fine, he mostly thought it was funny, and he'd never had to keep it up in person. He'd never been recognized on the street, had never been asked if he was the Varric Tethras, thank the Maker, because who would equate the glossy picture of a scenic vista's wet dream with the dwarf in flannel ordering donuts at 2 PM?

After he had explained all this to Hawke, and after what he considered to be a very reasonable and self-denying half hour of whining, they found themselves on their bench outside Lirene's. Hawke was laying into the donuts like a woman possessed while he stared listlessly into his third cup of coffee.

"The thing is," said Hawke, swiping powdered sugar away from her lips, "a couple hundred poncy horndogs can't be that hard to impress. We buy you some shiny pants and a shirt to show off what the Maker gave you, and we're done, right? You go, wink at a few people, accept your award, you go home. No problem."

"Well there's no telling if I'll win the damn thing--"

She scoffed.

"And it's the winking I'm worried about."

She took another donut out of the bag. "You seem to do okay most of the time."

He grimaced. Throwing a teasing wink at a friend was different. None of them expected anything from it, and he had the Bianca card in case anyone got any ideas. It didn't matter that she wasn't actually in his life, Hawke was the only one who knew that. He was too old and too busy to actually flirt with anyone.

Hawke reached over to take a sip of his coffee, and he passed it to her without a thought.

Especially if the person with whom he was flirting had any kind of impact on his actual life. If he played his part too well he might get whisked away into the powdery bosom of some Hightown heir or heiress, which no part of him wanted. If he didn't play well enough, his career might take an irretrievable nose dive, which was the last thing he needed.

He sighed, taking the coffee back from Hawke. Crumbs were floating in it from when she'd dunked her donut.

"Gross," he said, pointing into the cup.

She looked, shrugging. "You should eat something anyway."

Just then the door to Lirene's burst open, the bell on the door clanging. A young man practically ran out, his cheeks ablaze. He glanced over his shoulder furtively as he took down off the street.

A miffed-looking dwarven woman stepped out after him, her arm wrapped around the waist of a smug, shockingly handsome elven man. He leaned down to give her a nip on the ear as they watched the young man run away.

"The balls on some people," she grumbled.

"Yes," said her companion. "And if they were to be as lovely as he claimed, I will never know."

She looked up at him, annoyed.

He raised a hand in surrender, smirking. "Not that I would wish to know, mi amore." He took her hand and kissed it. "Now, you must let me thank you for defending my honor by permitting me to buy you a pastry as sweet as your eyes."

She smiled, giving him a very put-upon sigh. They went back into the cafe, her hand drifting lower down his waist.

Hawke and Varric looked at each other.

"See?" she said. "Where else are you going to get breakfast and a show like that? Best city in the world."

"It had comedy, it had romance," he said.

"A chase scene, innuendo."

"True love," they said together.

They grinned at each other for a moment. The tension in Varric's stomach disappeared as he took a sip of the coffee.

"You know," he said. "That's exactly what I need. A bodyguard between me and these Dowager people. The equivalent of a rabid mabari ripping the throat out of anyone who looks too long at my ass."

Hawke snorted. "You can borrow Strider, if you want. Though you'll have to settle for a non-rabid mabari."

"As if anyone would be afraid of Strider."

"He's fierce!"

"He's fat."

"He is fat." Hawke smiled proudly.

He had to bite his lip against the grin on his face. She was ridiculous and impossible and covered in powdered sugar, and he was in love with her. He fought to keep it out of his smile.

She bunched up the donut bag and threw it at the nearest trash can. She missed. "Tit," she grunted, getting up. 

She really was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, he thought, arm slung over the bench. Of course, anyone could see that. She was tall, strong, with eyes so clear and clever they could stop your heart. She was funny, smart. Charming, kind… 

He tried not to watch her ass as she bent to pick up the garbage and threw it away. He didn't try very hard.

"See something you like, Master Tethras?" came a voice, making him jump.

Isabela sauntered toward their bench, waggling her eyebrows in Hawke's direction.

"Only someone doing their civic duty," he said. 

Hawke wheeled around. "Bela, heyy!"

"How's the mysterious illness, darling?" She took Hawke's face in her hands, turning her head left and right as if examining it. "Merrill said something about swollen glands? Projectile vomit?" 

"Haha, uh..."

"You seem hale and hearty enough to me," she hummed, before giving Hawke's cheek a playful slap. "I'm not here to begrudge my star employee stealing a day off. You certainly deserve it, kitten. I'm only here to buy my very sad, very disappointed wife a consolation sweet. Seeing as she had to attack furnature beyond her ken on her own today."

Hawke worried her lip, glancing at Varric.

"That's my fault, Rivaini," said Varric. "I needed Hawke for some, uh, stuff today."

Isabela's eyebrows shot up, her grin growing impossibly wider. 

"Oh well done, both of you," she said, clapping Hawke on the shoulder and whipping out her phone from between her tits. "How many times in one night? Only--"

"Bela--!"

"Ancestors, Rivaini! Not like that!"

Isabela glanced up from her phone.

"I was just asking Hawke for some advice about--"

"Oh, communication is all well and good," she said, waving a hand, "but it's the practical applications--"

"Isabela," said Hawke. "Varric and I are not having sex." She sounded strong in a way that made him pause. 

"Ugh," sighed Isabela, sinking onto the bench next to Varric. "You know, I was about to be a very rich woman."

"You're already a very rich woman," he said.

"Yes, but one can always stand to be richer," she said, pouting. 

Her phone rang suddenly.

"Fenris. No, sorry darling, false alarm."

She tucked the phone back into her shirt. "Well," she said. "If you aren't finally blowing Varric's back out, what are you doing here?"

"Uhhahah, um," she said, cheeks flaming. "Varric needed some help with his publisher."

"Oh? The delicious taciturn one?"

Varric shrugged, trying not to focus on how nervous Hawke looked. "It's not really the Seeker's fault, it's mine. I got nominated for a Dowager."

"What, to marry?" said Isabela.

"Yeah that's what I said, but apparently it's a literary award," said Hawke.

"Ohh," said Isabela, delighted. "An award for dirty books! Oh tell me there's a ceremony."

"There is," he said.

"How delicious. So you don't know what to wear? Or what not to? All those wet literary types, I could cry with jealousy. I wouldn't mind giving an opinion if you'd model for me, Varric." She winked.

He looked desperately at Hawke.

"That's the thing," she said. "We're trying to think of a way to discourage the uh, wet literary types."

"Don't see why," sniffed Isabela. "Not as if you're married."

"You are," Varric reminded her.

"And dutifully so! Which is why I must live vicariously through you. Who's your date?"

"Well, we were considering Strider..."

Isabela scoffed. "I thought you wanted to keep all the rich tits off of you. Everyone loves a man with a dog, especially a fat, spoiled one like Hawke's."

"He's not spoiled!" said Hawke. "He gets what he deserves!"

"Darling, if for whatever ill-conceived reason you'd like to keep your fine dwarven crafts to yourself, what you're going to need is a buffer."

"A buffer." 

"Ideally a big one. Someone intimidating to scare off even the boldest. You're absolutely too scrummy for any of these randy Hightown types to resist. The chest hair, the reputation--you're doomed unless they think you're spoken for. And whoever speaks for you had better be an absolute brick wall, someone who no one would think about crossing..."

Isabela's eyes wandered casually, taking too long to rest on Hawke. "Oh! Hawke darling, you clean up rather nicely, if I remember."

"What, me?"

"Why not? I seem to remember you cutting quite the figure at the wedding. Remember, Varric?"

Hawke blushed under his gaze, forcing them both to look away.

Maker, the wedding. Hawke had been Rivaini's best man, done up in a deep red silk dress that had a back open almost all the way to the ass. He'd been on the other half of the wedding party, spending most of the ceremony holding tissues out for Merrill. As they left the chantry two by two her heel had caught on her dress; she might have fallen had Varric not caught her about the waist. He kept his hand on the small of her back, teasing her about breaking a leg and stealing Isabela and Merrill's thunder. When she'd looked back at him she had been blushing just like that.

Varric still thought about that blush now, years later. Probably would've dreamed of it, if he could.

"Well, I certainly remember," said Isabela. "We nearly invited you to the honeymoon."

"I wouldn't be able to keep up with the two of you," Hawke tried, gaze firmly elsewhere. 

"Oh I doubt that, kitten."

Varric had known Hawke to have partners in the past. Never quite permanent, just casual encounters; maybe a repeat or two over the years. A few of them had even gone drinking with them (he remembered one tight-assed Templar in particular) and he'd never known Hawke to act the blushing virgin with anyone. Like in everything, she was loud and confident with her sometime-lovers, delighting in embarrassing them in front of her friends. 

He started to sweat, thinking of having all that bold, bare-faced innuendo pointed at him, even as a ruse.

"Wouldn't work anyway," he said. "Since, uh…"

"Yeah, because, uhm…"

They watched each other. Isabela grinned, glancing between the two of them.

"Shit," said Varric.

"It would work," said Riviani. "You've seen these arms? Give us a flex, kitten."

"Bela--"

"You've seen this face?" She pointed at Hawke's nose, who swatted it away.

"She's got more than enough experience turning away undesirables--Oh! Desirous undesirables!" Isabela laughed aloud at her own joke. "You won't find a better bouncer, I promise you that. And this one comes with nice, bouncey--"

"Riviani, please."

"And since you are the very best of friends, there ought to be no danger of being a little close for one evening, hm? All in the interest of friendship."

Neither of them said anything, finding other things on the street to become interested in.

"Wonderful!" said Isabela, clapping as she stood. "Settled, then. Our sweet, decadent smut peddler and his envious, smoke show mistress--what a treat!"

"'Smokeshow'?" said Varric.

"'Envious'?" said Hawke.

She pulled her phone back out from between her tits, tapping away at an alarming rate. "Truly, what would any of you do without me. Kitten, you did do splendidly in red, but how would you feel about--oh! When is this soiree?"

She looked back to Varric, face angled away from Hawke. 

Rivaini was slight, flippant, ever-smiling. It was all too easy to forget that she ran more than a bar out of The Siren. But those eyes held him in a way that reminded him that they had been the last sight of many a stupider man.

"Um." He checked today's date on his phone. "Saturday."

Isabela blew out a harried breath. "Better get cracking, then! Did you pack your heavy credit card today, Varric?" 

And, flashing those eyes that tolerated no arguement, Isabela began striding down the street, monologuing away about the who and what and where of what she needed to turn them into the "paragons of sex" that Varric's reputation demanded.

Hawke glanced at him as they jogged to catch up, looking panicked.

He chuckled, shrugging at her. As he chugged down the rest of the coffee, donut crumbs swirled against his lips.

Well, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrill and Isabela are poly, fight me.


	4. Paragons of Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping montage babyy.

Well. Shit.

Hawke smoothed her hands over the silk of the little green number Isabela had managed to talk her into. She made eye contact with Varric in the mirror, seated behind her on a velvet sofa and looking too entertained.

"Something on your mind, Tethras?" she said.

He shrugged, failing to hide his smile in one of the champagne flutes the shop attendant had left for them. The attendant himself had been wise enough to leave them with the booze and hide.

She would've given a put-upon sigh if she didn't think it would pop the damn seams of the dress that was wearing her. Now, Marian Hawke was a slut. She was a beast in the streets  _ and  _ a beast in the sheets, and she'd be the first one to let you know. Once, she had to rush to dress for dinner with Bethany's new (templar) boyfriend and was hard-pressed to find a dress in her closet that provided only limited access to her tits. Eventually, she'd settled on a large, boxy t-shirt that you might squint at and call a dress. It was only after stepping out of her apartment that she remembered it said "Pussy Patrol" across the chest. 

The dress she had on now was the tenth she'd tried on this afternoon, and the worst. It was green silk (which sounds nice but simply doesn't breathe, and gets swampy after an hour), short to her ass (fine), low on her tits (great), and had tight sleeves that ran down to her fingers, with a little loop that went around her finger like a ring. This was unforgivable. Her arms were her ace in the hole. The babes loved the arms.

"I'm very attractive, Varric." Not a question.

"Yeah." Obviously.

"And still this dress makes me look like…" She looked herself up and down. "A minigolf course."

Varric spluttered into a real laugh. It was a relief to hear.

"These--" she raised her hand, indicating the loop over her finger. "My holes. This--" She waved her hand at the green of the dress. "My course. These!" She wiggled her chest back and forth. "My obstacles."

He shook his head, smiling. 

She sighed, pretending to weigh her options. "I won't be saying yes to this dress, no."

Bela breezed back into the room, a new armful of gaudy options slung over her arm. Merrill, on speaker, trilled from her back pocket. 

"Oh! Like the TV programme! That's quite funny!"

"It's been the same joke all afternoon. Here." She shoved the whole stack into Hawke's arms. "Try the blue one." She flopped on the couch next to Varric, pulling Merrill out of her pocket and switching over to video call.

Hawke shuffled back into the changing room adjacent to the little viewing area. "Will it bring out my eyes, Bela?" she called over the wall.

"No, but my fingernails will if you don't choose a damned dress." 

"Merrill, I'm sorry for flaking today," Hawke called.

"Quiiiarriiiiiith," squeaked the phone.

"She says 'Quite alright,'" called Bela. "Get out of the bedroom, darling, the wifi's shit."

There was a muffled shuffle before Merrill's voice trilled clear through the phone. "So you're up for a Dowager, Varric! How exciting!" 

Hawke smiled to herself. Merrill had always taken an interest in Varric's work, maybe because she was a good friend, but more likely because Varric's latest books had been pretty heavy on the pirate motif.

"Do you even know what that is, Daisy?"

"Oh yes! I keep an eye on the articles, you know, after she covered some of your books. She gave the new  _ Swords and Shields  _ 'five scarves fluttered in shock out of five'!"

"Is that good?" said Bela.

"Do we have to bring scarves?" called Hawke.

"I don't think so, but I'll wear a pocket square just in case."

As everyone nattered back and forth about what counts as a scarf and what a shtick is, the blue dress Bela had given Hawke was giving her the business. 

It looked like it was going to be bigger than it was, and it was tight from toe to tip; she had to wiggle pretty enthusiastically to get the damn thing on. When she looked back up to the mirror, she nearly shouted. She fell into a fit of giggles, flexing her arms and admiring her ass.

"Bela, sweet  _ Maker! _ "

"Oh, the Blue One?"

"Bela." Hawke stepped out of the dressing room. "The Blue One."

  
  


\---

Varric couldn't feel his face.

He'd seen as much of Hawke's body as was practically possible without having had dinner first. He'd seen her in sweaty gym shorts, bikinis that were more string than fabric, and once, memorably, full-length jeans tight enough he wondered if they'd be kicked out of The Hanged Man for indecent exposure. This was different.

Objectively. It was a formal, blue velvet dress. It had a neckline high to her throat. It had little loopy straps that went around her biceps, like an artistic approximation of sleeves, but otherwise left her arms bare. It was skin tight down the length of her body until it came to the back of her thighs, where it pooled out behind her into a small train. Objectively, it was a very nice dress.

Subjectively? It was the color of the dawn after a long night of crying on her shoulder. It was the texture of every dirty thought he'd ever hated himself for having. The sleeves clung to her biceps in a firm caress, soft and tight to her muscles, the way she gripped his arm when she laughed.

Hawke was flexing at herself in the mirror. "Maker, I look fucking ripped in this."

"Mind the seams, kitten," Rivaini was saying. She turned her phone around so Daisy could see.

"Oh, Hawwww-KKKwwke!" the audio stuttered.

Oh. Hawke.

This afternoon had been going so well. He'd spent most of it heckling Isabela's choices and getting buzzed off of cheap champagne. Everything Hawke had tried on had been fine, just the right side of ridiculous to fit the character she'd be playing as his date to the Dowagers. He'd relaxed, getting it into his head that they'd both be wearing what amounted to silly costumes, there to play silly parts. If he thought of it as a performance it wouldn't fry his brain half as much to pretend to pretend to be in love with the love of his life. He'd even gotten comfortable with the idea, watching her sift through gaudy leopard print and stringy pleather.

This dress wasn't what he had in mind. The woman who was making faces at herself in the mirror before him was not Hawke, his best pal, but Hawke, secret hope of his heart.

She turned and looked him in the eyes.

"Well, Tethras? I won't embarrass you too much, I think."

He cleared his throat, trying to turn it into a chuckle. "I don't think 'embarrass' is the word, no."

"'Outshine' is more like it," said Rivaini. She stood, adjusting creases on the dress, patting imaginary dust away from Hawke's tits. "Ooh, soft."

"It's so soft! Varric, look." Hawke shuffled into his space, offering him a hip and looking expectant.

He ran a hand over her hip, trying to hold his face into something neutral. It was  _ sinfully  _ soft. It was so tight to her skin; he could feel the warmth of her body under his fingers. He slid his hand across the fabric, running from her hip to the small of her back.

She wobbled slightly, so he firmed his hold on her to keep her steady. When he looked up at her face she was smiling faintly, her eyes on his, cheeks coloring.

Rivaini was watching from behind her, holding Daisy on video up to see.

He ripped his hand away, scratching the back of his neck. "Pretty soft, yeah. Velvet will do that."

He must have been beet red. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Red and visibly sweaty. Ancestors, how was he going to get through a whole evening next to this woman?

"Well that's Hawke sorted," said Rivaini with a clap.

Hawke stepped away from him, going to change back into her clothes, and he felt suddenly cold for the lack of her. It wasn't until the door closed that he realized Rivaini and Daisy were staring at him.

"Fuck off," he mouthed at them. The grin on Isabela's face could have landed a plane, and Daisy stifled a giggle into her sleeve.

The door to the changing room banged open. A less stress-inducing Hawke stepped out with the dress over one arm, shaking the wrinkles from her t-shirt. 

"You next, hot stuff."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's dress: https://images.app.goo.gl/GC9fT5JP2C3BgC1m7
> 
> Kind of a short chapter this time, but you know I'm gonna make it worth your while. See u soon ;)


	5. Paragons of Sex (cont.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We do some Thinking

They walked from shop to shop, Bela throwing human-tailored blazers and suits at Varric ("There are dwarven tailors, Rivaini." She looked him up and down. "I see that."). 

All afternoon Hawke felt Varric's eyes on her.

He watched her over his own shoulder in the reflection of a dressing room mirror, around corners and between racks. He watched her as she batted her eyelashes at the girl working in the cafe, trying to get extra whipped cream. She even caught him looking as she scrolled through her phone while she waited for Bela to be done haggling over Varric's new shoes. (Not a lot of people are confident enough to haggle in Hugo Boss, fewer are intimidating enough to actually get the price down, and only one is enigmatic enough to do both and get the sales rep's number.)

This looking thing Varric was doing wasn't necessarily new. He was the kind of friend who kept an eye out in general; she'd seen him see which guys tried to pick up Fenris, keep track of how long Merrill was taking in the bathroom, gauge how serious an argument between Anders and, well, anyone, became. At the same time. He'd keep track of you and also keep track of exactly how much you needed keeping track of. It could be argued that Hawke was no better, being the one who was keeping track of his track-keeping. 

This was hardly the point at the moment though, because Varric wasn't keeping track of her, he was  _ watching.  _ If she made eye contact with the Varric who is looking out for her, he would shrug or wink or give her some judgemental eyebrows. Today, when Hawke made eye contact with the Varric who was just  _ looking, _ he visibly panicked. He got interested in whatever piece of merchandise was closest, or suddenly needed to ask if they had that in a size Dwarf. And, most baffling of all, this Varric  _ blushed. _

Quintessential rakish archetype and subject of a thousand Chantry sisters' confessions, Varric Tethras. Blushed. It was maddening.

The sun was starting to truly dip as Hawke stepped out of this most recent shop to answer a call from Avaline. She had somehow heard about the whole farce and wanted assurance that it wasn't some kind of scam. Hawke glanced back through the shop window, making a conscious effort to zone out. 

"I just don't see why you have to stick your damn nose--" Avaline was saying.

She caught Varric's eye again. His eyes floundered slightly before feigning interest in something over her shoulder. She looked. There was a sign for the daily special of a pizza place across the street.

She made a show of looking at it, at him, and back again. "Pizza?" she mouthed at him. 

He shook his head, glancing away and waving his hands in the signal for "nevermind."

He had his hand on the back of his neck and started to turn to walk out of sight. She followed his movement with her head, fixing him on the spot with a glare. She squinted at him, and he visibly shrank.

That was new.

She pointed at him, and then at her own stomach. "You hungry?" she mouthed.

He shook his head, pushing his hair back from his face.

She pointed at herself and made a walking motion with two fingers. "I can go." She threw a thumb over her shoulder at the pizza shop.

"No," he mouthed, glancing to where Bela was arguing with a man about who saw which ascot first.

She nodded as if she hadn't understood him, and then mimed going to leave. She stuck one finger in the air as if remembering something, then made a show of turning out the lining of the front pockets of her jeans. She heaved a sigh. "No money!"

Something in his face cracked, softened again. He lifted his eyebrows, indicating at her up and down with one finger. "What's new?"

She flipped him off.

She saw him laugh. She chuckled a little, trying not to interrupt Avaline explaining to her whatever she was meant to be sorry for now. She turned to lean on the brick of the building, watching the traffic.

"And Donnic agrees with me," Avaline finished. There was a muted "Right!" in the background.

"Why does Donnic agreeing with you make a difference? He's got as big of a stick up his ass as you."

Hawke's phone seemed to burn up against her cheek with the heat of Avaline's glare.

"It's a party, Avaline. Borning rich people, bad canapes, we go home. What's got you worked up?"

Avaline tore into her about the dangers of impersonation among the wealthy elite (ha), ruining Varric's reputation (HA), and Hawke throwing herself into ridiculous and complex tableaus for no reason at all.

"Well that's not fair, there's not  _ no reason _ ."

"Oh?"

"There will be all sorts of, you know, randy dowagers there, and I'm going for Varric, to... "

"Defend his honor?"

"Kind of. That's the general idea."

"He's a grown man, Hawke."

"He asked me to."

She heard Avaline roll her eyes. "Did he actually, though?"

Well. Hawke didn't actually remember if he had said the words "please come cockblock anyone who looks at my fine dwarven ass," but it had been implied.

"I think so?" she said.

"Hawke. It's a room full of people who want to impress him, get favors, get close. Why would he want you there? You'll just be in the way. Of  _ people. _ "

She sighed, kicking her shoe against the wall. A big chunk of her wanted to tell Avaline to fuck off, but she could be right. And that... Hawke sighed. The only thing worse than Varric not wanting her like that was Varric not wanting her around, she thought.

"Well--" she said.

"And even you must be able to see--"

She didn't need Varric to want her; she'd all but given up on the idea as the years ticked by. She had tried, in the beginning: winked a little, let her hand linger. He'd always joked out of it, citing the ethereal Bianca. So Hawke backed off, locked it away, kept it her own business if her eyes lingered where her hands couldn't.

But, as time and lovers passed, that little tickle of interest had grown rather than faded. The way he fell into step with her when she was trying to hide how upset she was. The way he made sure she'd eaten at the end of a long day. The blanket that was hers on the back of his sofa. 

She held her ear back up to the receiver. "--and it really isn't the best idea with _you_ _and_ _Varric_ of all people--" She lowered it again, glancing back into the shop.

Varric was steady, strong like stone under her. She was the same for him, she hoped. She did her best to slip her hand in his when he needed it. She made sure that no one was fucking with him, taking advantage of that reflexive kindness hidden under all his smirk and snide. 

It had been a long time since she'd let herself hope for more.

To this day she thought about the way she'd caught her from falling at Bela and Merrill's wedding. The warmth of his hand on her skin. He'd laughed through it, teasing her. It made her think for a while, hope a little, but there hadn't been anything like that again for years. Until today.

She felt the ghost of his hand, roaming over her hip in that blue dress. His eyes were dark, a little lost before he caught her looking at him. She'd nearly buckled when their eyes met, that soft look still lingering on his face before that strange panic set in.

She wasn't sure what all this deflection meant. She'd thought for a moment that she was finally getting some of that appreciation she'd been hoping for, even just aesthetically. At least she could tease him about that. 

But now she worried that it was the idea of her loud, shameless, eye-drawing self cockblocking him through an evening of potential career-advancing lasciviousness that had set him on edge. Maybe he was embarrassed to say so, thinking she'd feel snubbed, sparing her feelings. Maybe he was watching for the right moment to say, "I can't have Kirkwall's beefiest sex paragon overshadowing me in front of the rich, famous, and available."

Which, if that were the case, would really be for the best. Nothing would make her feel as disgusting and heartless as watching those honey eyes scan the room for someone, anyone else. 

He didn't have to love her as she loved him. She just couldn't let herself be in the front row for a narrative that would never be hers.

She held the phone back up to her ear. It didn't seem like Avaline had even taken a breath. "--and if you would consider for a Void-taken  _ moment _ just  _ talking _ \--"

"Sorry, I have, you know," she said. "Thanks. Talk to you later. Or not. Ho-hum."

"Marian--"

Hawke hung up.

When she got back inside the man who had been arguing with Bela was slumped in a chair, crying, as Bela ran soothing circles across his back. "Shh, shh, darling. We all make mistakes. Well, you do, certainly."

Varric was over at the register paying for whichever handkerchief they'd landed on for his pocket square, looking for all the world like someone who wasn't taking frantic mental notes on whatever the hell had just happened.

Hawke sidled up to him. "Do I want to know?"

"Yes," he said, eyes sparkling. "With details. Later."

She nodded, lips twitching. "Varric?"

"Mhm?" he said as he signed the receipt. The number of digits on it made Hawke's head ache.

"Do you really want me to go to this thing with you?"

He slid the paper over the counter and took a small box from the assistant with a smile. "Who else am I gonna go with?"

"I don't know. People?"

He glanced up at her, eyes darting over her face as they stepped out of the shop. "I don't have any People, you know that."

"Yeah," she said. "But maybe you want one?"

There was that look again, desperately scanning the street. To anyone else, he might have seemed distracted, but Hawke knew the difference between his attention being ripped away and pulled away.

"And I don't want to get in the way. I'd understand. Hey, it's okay. I'm not going to be mad if you don't want the prettiest girl at the party on your arm. Does get in the way of any actual options circling around. If that's what you'd want. Is it? Because I mean--"

He laughed a little under his breath, finally meeting her eyes. "Look. If I was looking for People, you'd be the first to know."

Her heart stuttered a little before he caught himself, that beet color rising in his face.

"I mean, you're my best friend."

"Yeah."

The sun was mostly set by now, and the marine layer was rolling in. It started to mist slightly, so they stepped back under the canopy above the shop.

He cleared his throat. "So if I was looking, so to say, I'd keep you apprised. We tell each other everything. That's some Everything, so I'd tell you."

"Right," she said. "Alright."

"Alright?"

"So I'm coming with," she said. "So no Everything happens. No Everything that you don't want."

He laughed airily. "Trust me, I won't."

"Well," she said. "If someone starts to appeal, you let me know and I'll, you know, break up with you or something. Die of food poisoning."

"I won't, they won't. You can't die of food poisoning anyway."

"Maybe I'm already dehydrated and I shit myself into a coma."

He laughed a real laugh then, to her relief. "Ah yes, that really gets the panties on the floor. 'My wife has just spectacularly ruined the bathroom and passed away. Anyway, you come here often?'"

"Oh so she's your wife now?" said Isabela, coming up behind them, tucking a small piece of paper with what looked like a phone number on it into her bra.

Varric winced his way into a smile. "Better cover than a mistress, right? Less room for argument."

Bela sniffed. "No helping the unambitious, I suppose. We're all sorted here, then? I have an appetite to return to the bosom of my good lady wife."

Hawke nodded at Bela's tits. "To share the intel of your own bosom?"

She grinned like a cat. "Fortune favors the bold, they say. Cheerio, lovebirds."

Varric sighed.

"Oh, right. Pretend lovebirds." She winked at him as she strutted off down the street.

Varric was rubbing the back of his neck again.

"Got a rash?" asked Hawke.

His hand fell to his side.

She started them down the street, choosing to ignore the way he paused before following her.

"So what  _ is _ on your mind then, Tethras?" she said. 

"Nothing."

"You're acting pretty shifty for 'nothing.'"

He took his hair out of the tie to re-tie it more firmly. Hawke did herself the mercy of not watching.

"It's just, you know. Not looking forward to a stuffy evening of deceit."

"You love deceit."

He sighed. "It's fun when it's not your own literal ass in the spotlight. I like being the guy in the corner. That's me anyway, so it's easy." He glanced up at her with a small smile. "It's gonna take a lot of work to convince anyone that that schlub in the corner is the smokeshow they want him to be."

"'Schlub'?" said Hawke.

"Yeah, like 'slob' kinda. 'Loser', largely."

Hawke's boot squeaked against the pavement as she pulled up short. "Where the hell did you get that idea?"

Varric looked back at her with a laugh, stopping a few steps ahead. He paused as if waiting for her to get the joke. He gestured down at himself.

She stepped forward and grabbed him by the shoulder. "What the fuck are you talking about." She spun him around so he was facing the window of the cafe they were passing. "Have you seen this guy lately? You've got mirrors at the loft, I've seen them."

He huffed a laugh, stepping out of her grip. "Come on, Hawke, it's gonna rain."

She lifted her eyebrows, not budging.

He rolled his eyes. "I know I'm not bad to look at, Hawke. But I've been out of the game, any game, for a long time." He walked on. She caught up in a couple of strides.

"Yeah, because you shot everyone down with the whole Bianca line."

"And that worked with people who knew me. But when was the last time you saw someone come up to me in a bar? Without context?"

She considered. By the end of the night, Varric was usually holding court over half the bar, words flying over old stories and flagrant lies. People gravitated toward him naturally; strangers of every gender had often taken to spending most of the evening at his elbow, hanging off of everything he said, and looking a little moonish. Now that she thought of it though, she'd never caught anyone trying for anything other than a longing look.

"I've seen them looking," she said.

"Right. Look, you don't need to make me feel better about this, Hawke. Really--"

"I have! That mage girl with the red hair from a couple of nights ago?"

He gave her a skeptical look. "If everyone who listened to my stories secretly wanted to fuck me--"

"A lot of them do! I'm telling you!"

"Then why hasn't anyone tried? I haven't had to pull out the Bianca line for anyone other than Rivaini in years."

"Well. Do you think it's me?"

He paused, watching her with that lost look on his face. "What?"

"I'm a slice of ass myself, and we're always in each other's pockets. Maybe people assume. It's not like anyone who gets that impression is going to put themselves in front of these." She flexed.

Varric rolled his eyes.

"Big Bertha and Bigger Bertha," she said, watching her own biceps bunch up.

He nodded, smiling, a little of that lost, warm look in his eyes.

\---

  
  


When the door to the loft finally, finally slid closed behind him, Varric leaned back against it and pointedly Did Not scream. After an impressive forty-five seconds of incredible self-control, he pushed off and went about putting his Varric Tethras™ costume away.

This was, to say the very least, bad. 

He put the box with the handkerchief in it on his dresser.

It was one thing to imagine, wholly another to have the manifestation of your guiltiest desires wiggling her tits in your face. And not just her tits, tits he might be able to handle. But her laughing eyes, wanting him to jibe back, and concerned when he didn't. Her new, uncanny ability to catch him whenever he looked at her, and the hurt he saw when he couldn't tell her why.

He pulled the Oxfords out of their box and pulled the paper from inside their toes.

He hadn't meant to be looking. It was just that, whenever she came around the corner he felt like he was seeing her for the first time, or like he had somehow forgotten how beautiful she was. He kept wanting to  _ say  _ it. And not in the cute, teasing way they did--"we're friends, not blind"--but actually tell her how beautiful she was. He was overcome with the need for her to know, down to her bones, how much of a wonder she really was.

He unwrapped the socks and threw them into a load of laundry, watching the water start to spin as it cycled. 

She made him laugh. And, somehow, it felt better to make her laugh. He'd never felt that before. He could get a room full of people shaking the rafters with laughter, but unless he caught her cackle in the crowd it didn't feel like a real win.

He hung the suit on the back of his bathroom door.

He looked at it, stomach rolling. He thought of wearing it, standing next to her. Maybe she'd put a hand on his shoulder, or maybe she'd guide his hand to her waist. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine a world where knowing that it was all an act didn't break his heart. He was a good storyteller, and a better liar, but that was too far a stretch even for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, and thank you for waiting!


	6. Lance the Problem

_Thursday_

Hawke stood up from the toilet and caught herself in the mirror, pulling her knickers up. She took herself in for a moment as she washed her hands: how her eyelashes brushed against her skin when she blinked, how her cheeks moved as she pursed her lips, how--

She turned her head, reminding herself that if the grey hairs on the side of her head couldn't hurt her if they couldn't see her, like a t-rex. She scrubbed her hands, focusing hard on the way her arms moved in the mirror. _Yes, look,_ she thought. _I'm jacked. Not old: jacked._

Fuck, she was getting petty again. When was the last time she masturbated? She couldn't remember. Did she remember to buy new soap for her toy? She thought back, trying to picture her last orgasm.

Oh. Right. Varric's place. Her spine wiggled a bit at that, caught between a shiver and a shudder.

Hawke had always thought that the best part of sexual attractiveness is that it was a completely ignorable personality trait. She might feel a little tug toward a person; she might get a little attached to the idea of kissing them, or fucking them, or fucking them again. That didn't have to _mean_ anything.

If her maidenly flutterings were unreturned or becoming inconvenient she could always find something profoundly unsexy about pretty much anyone. Anders' neediness, for example, or the fact that Avaline was a cop. Bela was controlling; Merrill was too desperate to please. Sebastian was capital 'r' Religious, and who knew what landmines were waiting there? Fenris was gloomy _,_ which could be fun for a rainy weekend, but she knew he'd get attached and she'd get bored.

Varric… was a bastard. Even when Hawke tried to protect herself with sobering thoughts like "friend" and "loyal" and " _best friend_ , for fuck's sake, Marian," they just became eclipsed by thoughts about "eyes" and "safe," and worst, lately: "home". 

That was the stuff that worried her awake at night, but the fact that it didn't worry her enough to then get her hands away from herself--now that she was up any worrying anyway--had been a real Sisyphusian struggle.

She sighed, rubbing her thumb across the smeared reflection on the faucet. 

Now that she thought about it, the existence of a mutual attraction couldn't be denied. "Friends, not blind," they said. She'd seen him looking, and he'd definitely caught her looking. It'd be hard not to, all the mooning around for him she was doing these days. Lingering looks. Who could blame them? And lately, when they'd been alone… 

She sighed, switching the bathroom light out and padding off to the living room. Bethany was leaning on the kitchen counter as she sipped a glass of water with all the dejection of a noir PI sipping scotch. She was still in her scrubs.

Hawke cleared her throat. "Bathroom's yours," she said.

Bethany blinked up at her. "Oh? Oh, are you sure, Marian? You don't need another 45 minutes to brush your teeth? I've only just come off a 14 hour--"

Hawke rolled her eyes and pushed past her into the kitchen. "Just take a damned shower, you smell like sick people."

"I only spent my _whole_ day saving lives--"

Hawke plucked an ice cube out of Bethany's glass, dropping it down the front of her shirt. 

Bethany shrieked, squirming and wiggling. When she got the ice in her hand she threw it back at Hawke, who only batted it into the sink. Bethany threw a glare over her shoulder before stalking off into the bathroom. After a moment Hawke heard the knob in the shower squeak angrily. 

Using the sounds of inanimate objects as a point to your argument was a Hawke family tradition. She opened and closed the kitchen cupboards apologetically as she scrounged up some dinner.

Strider nosed at her feet.

"We're all out of regular cheese, buddy, I'm sorry. Just Bethany's plant-based stuff." She sighed, wrinkling her nose. "We're probably going to have to eat that salad from the other night."

He huffed and planted himself in the doorway. She placed a slice of zucchini from the salad next to his nose. He ate it out of the side of his mouth ruefully. 

She divided what was left of a BBQ tofu salad into two bowls and split a can of wine into two glasses, setting everything up on the coffee table in the living room and switching on the TV. She queued up the episode of _Dr Pimple Popper_ they'd left off on last night and kicked her slippered feet up onto the table if only to enrage her sister. She chewed on her salad, watching Strider look at her covetously.

It was achingly quiet, other than the sound of her munching and the running water in the next room.

Things had felt so still in the apartment since Carver had shipped out with the Wardens. Bethany and Hawke were both constantly on the edge of ripping his throat out, but it still felt too still without Carver ghosting around in his headphones, pointedly ignoring or snapping at anyone who got within two feet of him. 

Despite all odds, Hawke missed him. It would have helped to run the whole Varric situation by her brother if only to voice the argument she was already having in her head. She could do with a good needless shouting match, both of them knowing that Hawke would just do whatever she wanted to do anyway.

She heard the shower squeak off, and soon Bethany stepped out in a cloud of steam and the smell of shampoo, wearing her bathrobe and a smile for Hawke's dinner setup. She wrapped her towel around her head and settled in beside Hawke, taking up a glass of wine. She sipped, sighing.

"Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite sister?" 

"Hmm," said Hawke. "Should we see what Dr. Lee is up to?"

Bethany nodded around a mouthful of salad. "I hope that lady with the lipoma on her head comes back."

They sat like that through most of an hour, munching and sipping, interrupted only when Hawke had to ask her sister questions about why the human body was so gross.

"It's not gross, it's natural. Anyway, it's from a blockage due to…"

Hawke listened, horrified, and took a sip of wine.

As the credits on a second episode rolled, Bethany stood and cleared their plates. "So what's with the dress?"

Hawke's new dress was still hanging in its bag on the door to the hall closet. She chewed her lip, glancing over at it.

"I'm going to this writer party with Varric. We got new clothes."

The sound of Bethany washing their dishes paused momentarily. 

"A party?"

"Well, it's this award thing. He's nominated."

"Oh wow. Posh?"

Hawke hummed as she drained the last of her wine, standing up to get another can from the fridge. "Leave the dishes, Beth," she murmured.

Bethany scrubbed the BBQ sauce out of Hawke's bowl innocently. "Why's he bringing you if it's so posh?"

"Because I'm ravishingly gorgeous and he wants to avoid talking to horny rich people."

"So you're his date?"

Hawke stuck her head in the fridge, pretending to mull over which can of wine to choose. 

Bethany shut the water off and turned, kicking the refrigerator door so that it bumped Hawke's calf. "You're his _date,"_ she said.

"I'm going with him in the place of a date. I'm occupying the seat that is meant for a date."

Bethany's eyes lit up. She grabbed the can of wine from Hawke's hand and knocked the fridge door shut.

"Fucking _finally,_ " she said.

Hawke rolled her eyes, padding back to the couch. Bethany had always been big on Hawke talking about her feelings, especially the feelings that Hawke definitely was _not having,_ and to the people Hawke was not having those feelings about.

"Can I see the dress?" Bethany said, already unzipping the bag. Hawke let her head fall back against the couch with a _thunk_.

Bethany gasped softly. "Oh, poor Varric."

"Poor Varric!?" said Hawke.

"Yes, poor Varric," said Bethany. "Did you get shoes too?"

"In the box," Hawke gestured at the dining table, stacked high with mail. Bethany peeked into the box and whistled lowly. 

"Sweet Maker," she said. "Well if he wasn't desperately in love with you already I'd say he would be after this."

"Varric's not in love with me, Beth."

"Mhm, mhm. Because 'friends' write poems for you--"

"As a joke."

"'Friends' have a couch in their flat just for you--"

"Only the blanket is mine."

"'Friends' take you to black-tie events in form-fitting evening wear--"

"I'm his _fake_ date!" 

"--because _you_ certainly didn't pay for this--"

"For the _real_ horny people!"

Bethany gave her a look. 

"Fuck's sake," groaned Hawke. "To _deter_ the horny people!"

Bethany bent to fill Strider's bowl. "Well, I wish I had a 'friend' who looked at me with half the manic desperation that Varric does you." She closed the lid to the kibble; it popped archly. 

Strider glanced between them before he ate, sensing that he was caught in the middle of something. He crunched judiciously.

"And even if he was, which he isn't, I don't think of him that way. He's my best friend! I can't…" she wiggled her fingers.

"Hm?"

"With him. He's not interested, anyway." She reached for a glass of wine that wasn't there. "And neither am I."

"Right," said Bethany, coming back to the couch and setting the can of wine on the coffee table. Hawke cracked it immediately and took a large swig without splitting it between their cups.

Bethany turned her eyes back to the TV. "Whatever you say, Professor Rockhard."

Hawke spluttered, wine going up her nose. She glanced down at the words written on the shirt she'd grabbed for pajamas. 

**University of Kirkwall: Slut Department**

It was one of the set of matching shirts Bela had made for her stag night. Hawke pulled the fabric and glanced over her shoulder to read the back.

**Professor Rockhard** and a stick figure with a triangle of chest hair drawn in Sharpie.

"Shit," said Hawke. "I thought it fit weird. Have you seen mine? It says--"

"'Director of Internal Affairs,' I know."

Hawke stifled a giggle, poorly.

Bethany rolled her eyes. "It's not even clever."

"Yeah, but it's funny," said Hawke. "Aw, I miss it. You don't think Carver took it by accident, do you?"

Bethany turned back, leveling her with a glare set to maim. "Marian."

"Bethany."

"Why do you have Varric's shirt."

She shrugged. "I must have borrowed it and forgot to give it back."

"Mhm. And why did you borrow your friend's shirt."

"I don't know, probably I crashed at the loft and--"

"He gave it to you to sleep in?"

"Probably. I really don't see how this is relevant. He probably has a few things of mine too."

Bethany reached over and took Hawke by the chin between two fingers, squishing her cheeks. "Marian."

"Beffany."

"You're an idiot." She turned Hawke's head from side to side as she struggled, forcing her to keep eye contact. "I see how you look at him. I've never seen you so damn happy; it's disgusting. And I swear, if people could die of unresolved sexual tension I would have had to resuscitate Varric so often it would land him in a medical journal. So just quit moping around and talk to him like an adult."

"Oh'm no' mopin'," said Hawke.

Bethany let go of her sister's chin and slapped her lightly before sticking a finger in her face. She retracted it slowly, taking the wine can from Hawke's hand and sipping it.

"Done talking about this," Hawke grumbled. Bethany only shook her head and turned back to the TV.

They sat silently and watched Dr Lee dig out a particularly tricky dilated pore on an old Dalish woman's cheek. 

"You know," said Bethany after a time, "I read something quite interesting the other day about how the ink of a traditional vallaslin reacts to scarring--"

"But it's probably just sex, right?" said Hawke.

Bethany blinked.

"If he is attracted to me," said Hawke. "Which he might be, but probably isn't, it's just sexual."

Bethany slipped her wine.

"And if it _is_ just sexual, then it's too good to fuck up. Me and Varric, I mean. I can't muddy that with a bunch of," Hawke raised both eyebrows and gestured phallically. Bethany pulled a face. "It's not worth it. I can go anywhere for that, I can go to the bathroom drawer for that. But there's no," Hawke gestured from her chest to the sky, as if offering up her heart, "like Varric. My friend, Varric. You can't risk that kind of thing." She tucked her feet under her. "Can't just find that in your bathroom drawer, Beth."

Bethany leaned and plunked her wine on a coaster.

"Oh shut _up,_ " said Hawke. 

"I work at a hospital, you know," said Bethany.

Hawke rolled her eyes but sat back.

"This," said Bethany, wiggling a finger at the TV, "is the fun stuff. Little problems that you can schedule a time to take care of. Bothersome, but not so much that you have to set aside much more but an afternoon to get it seen to. But, if you ignore it, if you let it expand and grow because you're too busy or proud or embarrassed to take care of this little tiny bitty problem, it can get into your blood, it can get infected, and you can get truly sick. And then you have to come to see me in the hospital with all the crying babies and sneezing people, rather than our lovely Dr Lee on an afternoon that suits your schedule."

"But what if it isn't a lipoma, Beth? What if it's something else and I did the wrong thing to try and fix it?"

"Then I take a sample, send it to the lab, and I call you in two weeks."

Hawke groaned.

"Or, if by some truly unrealistic chance Varric doesn't feel the same way about you that you do about him--"

Hawke opened her mouth but Bethany put a finger up.

"--then you will have lanced the problem, and it can drain and begin to heal. And if you honestly believe that Varric," Bethany gripped her sister's arm. " _Varric_ , would walk away from you just because of a little pus? You are truly delusional."

Hawke grumbled, crossing her arms. "Gross."

Bethany rolled her eyes, releasing Hawke's arm and returning to her wine. "Yeah, well, you should hear him tell his stories about you when you're not around, that's what's sickening _._ Like every little thing out of your mouth was pure poetry. Half the city is in love with you just by the way the Varric talks about you. He's like a vector."

Hawke chewed her lip, studying her nails.

Bethany stood and sighed, switching off the TV. When Hawke looked up at her she was smiling that smug little smile she got when she knew she was about to win a hand of Grace.

"Ass," said Hawke softly.

"Yeah," said Bethany, and flicked Hawke's nose, hard, before tottering off to bed.

  
  


_Friday_

Varric stepped into the shower and caught his reflection in the glass door. He looked at his slumped shoulders; felt the way they creaked when he tried to straighten up. His hair was getting long. He wondered if he should cut it before tomorrow. He wondered if Hawke liked his hair long or short.

He wondered when he started caring what a friend thought of his hair. 

He washed it, paused to consider, and took the conditioner down from the high shelf and used that too. He wondered if he still had any of that aftershave he and Fenris had lifted when they broke into the Viscount's house last year. That should get some socialites well and truly confused.

If he was going to look good, it wasn't for Hawke. If his hair was undwarvenly shiny, if he smelled like the angel's share of a perfume store, it wasn't for Hawke. Because Hawke wouldn't care, and anyway, no one would be looking when he was next to _her_. 

Except for her, he guessed. Shit.

He rinsed the last of the conditioner out and cut the shower, throwing a sour smile at the poor sod he saw in the mirror. He wrapped a towel around his hips and went back to the bedroom to check his phone. He'd sent Cassandra a few emails bluffing that he couldn't go, just to enrage her and make her sweeten his motivation to attend. He was pretty sure he'd be able to wring a manuscript extension out of it.

He opened his phone to five missed calls from Cassandra, and one from her wife, Leliana. He called Leliana back first.

After a few rings a smooth, sweet voice came over the phone. "Hello, Varric."

Why a woman like Leliana married Cassandra "Listen-Here-You-Little-Shit" Pentaghast was beyond Varric's understanding. Leliana was an Orlesian transplant, a crime reporter for _L'époque Orlésienne._ The sheer volume of crime in Kirkwall kept her pretty rooted down in the city, and she and Varric shared a fondness for Kirkwall's sticky-fingered and bloody-minded citizens that united them as much as it kept them wary of each other. He liked her, but Varric knew that if anyone could make mob men sing with nothing but a question, a smile, and a cell phone recording, that person was best left to their own business.

"Hey there, Nightingale!" he said. "What can I do for you?"

_"Is that him?!"_ The Seeker's voice was muffled and far away, though no less chilling. Varric heard a door crash open.

"Varric, I think Cassandra would like to speak with you," said Leliana.

"Well tell her I'm busy. What's new with you, then?"

_"Give me the phone, Leliana."_

"Nothing much. I did meet with that contact on the Brosca case."

_"Leliana!"_

"Oh, wonderful! Was she any help?"

_"By the Maker--"_

"Yes. Not everything I needed but I appreciate the tip."

There was a muffled struggle and the sound of shuffling feet.

"Anytime, Nightingale. My dirt is your dirt."

There was a noise of disgust in the distance.

"Thank you, Varric," she said, a smile in her voice. "Would you like to speak with Cassandra now?"

"Hmm. Is it important? I'm pretty busy."

There was a fumble and a clatter as Leliana's phone hit the floor. The Seeker's voice came over sharp enough to kill. "Listen here, you little shit--"

"Oh, Seeker! Did you need something?"

"--I have just gotten off the phone with Ellana Lavellan, and--"

"The producer?"

"--she is considering _, perhaps,_ optioning _Swords and Shields_ \--"

"What, for a movie?"

"--and the _last_ thing I need when I am trying to make this happen, _for you,_ is a… fiasco tomorrow that will distance you _at all_ from The Dowager."

"I'll be on my best behavior, Seeker. Honest." Varric fiddled with the end of his towel. He'd never actually had one of his books optioned before. 

"Not your best," she said. "Better. She is your most important ally with the critics. You must win her over. You must find some way to woo her--"

"Gross."

"Don't."

Varric said nothing, apologetically.

"Find a way to win her over, figure something out to get a favor--"

"What kind of favor?"

"-- and _maybe_ I can get ink on paper with Lavellan. I don't know what kind of favor! Merely get yourself noticed, you need to be relevant."

"I'll be relevant when I win the award, Seeker," he said, in a wholly mature, non-petulant tone. "You ever stop to think I can get by on my merit?"

She snorted out a laugh. "Do not count on it, dwarf. There is a Pavus up this year."

Varric blinked. Dorian Pavus. Shit. 

The guy was a fine writer--an enviable talent if Varric was being honest--but he'd never actually floated into Varric's orbit. He'd kept _Sweetheart, is that you?,_ one of Dorian's earlier pieces, next to his bed for a month. A thin book that Varric took three weeks to read because of how often it made him cry.

" _Dorian_ Pavus? A _Dowager_?" he said.

"No, Halward Pavus. Yes, Dorian; yes, a Dowager. A translation of poems in Ancient Tevene written between a Magister and a bard."

"Translation," Varric sighed. Sounded like art. 

"It's very fashionable at the moment," Cassandra conceded.

He sat up and tightened the towel around him. "Is it any good?"

She paused. "It brought Leliana to tears."

"Shit."

"Exactly," said Cassandra, sighing. There was a pause as Varric listened to the gears of the Seeker's mind battle and screech before she let out a disgusted grunt, and there was the scrape of a chair against the floor as she sat down.

"Listen here you little shit," she said, gently. "I despise you. I hope someday you fall off the balcony of that pretentious loft of yours and into a shallow grave-"

Varric rolled his eyes.

"But I love your books. They're pulpy and ridiculous and wonderful. You have an honesty on the page that few authors in the genre can replicate. Romance, in its intended use. You sweep the reader off their feet, carrying them into thoughtfully constructed trite, so purposeful as to not be trite at all."

She groaned. That was probably the nicest thing she'd ever said to him, death threat notwithstanding. 

"But," she said, "the Dowager controls the genre, and the Lady controls the Dowager. For the sake of your career and your work, you must stand out tomorrow, plant your feet firmly in the public eye while you still have the stage that the Dowager has leant to you. Do not take that for granted."

"Seeker…" he said.

"Find some way to catch her eye, and keep it."

Varric glanced over at the suit on the back of his bathroom door.

"What," said Cassandra. 

Spooky. 

"Nothing," he said. He kicked the door to the bathroom open wide so the suit wouldn't be staring at him.

Cassandra said nothing, loudly.

"January," she said. "For the next five chapters."

"March?" he tried.

"February."

"Deal," said Varric. He'd been aiming for April, but it was the least he could do to let her have it. "Put Leliana back on. And thanks for looking out, Seeker."

"Ugh," she said.

There was a pause and a mumble about drinks before Leliana's voice came back over the phone. 

"So who are you taking for your date?" she asked.

"Hawke." He cleared his throat, adjusting the towel around him. He needed to get dressed before he caught a cold. "We got new clothes and everything. She's going to grin me into an early grave tomorrow, I swear. She got this dress, blue, and it's not even..."

It took him too long to notice that Leliana wasn't saying anything. The woman had a way of strapping you to a table for dissection before you even knew you were in the lab.

"I see," she said.

"Oh, you do?" asked Varric. It was meant to be sarcastic; it wasn't.

"Yes. Do you?"

Varric huffed. "You're too smart, Nightingale. It's spooky."

Leliana was grinning so loud he held the phone away from his ear. "See you tomorrow, Varric," she said. The call disconnected.

Varric shuddered as he hooked his phone back on the charger. He got up and pulled himself into some sweatpants. 

It's not like an award _mattered_. 

He was a best-selling author. That doesn't go away with political fuck up. And if he wasn't the Dowager's golden boy anymore, so what? It's not like the residuals would stop coming in, and best-case scenario, there'd be less demand for the romance serials. Though that would mean he'd have to fall back on the crime titles. He shuddered. 

A movie deal, though. That was a different story. A movie deal, especially for an already popular title, means _actual_ fame, not just contextual celebrity. Once you get solidly in the public eye like that you can write whatever the hell you want and people will buy it, just for your name on the cover. He could finally scrap that crime serial; he could actually publish that book of essays Hawke was hounding him about. He'd had his career, but with that freedom, he could really start putting out _work._

Nonfiction, stand-alone novels, anything. The only thing between him and that was… Them.

When Varric closed his eyes all he could see was powdered, up-turned noses leering down his shirt. Somebody's wine-stained breath hot on his face as he was forced to smile and be dashing and sexy and delighted with everyone he meets.

He sighed, turning his lamp out and flopping face-first onto the mattress. Living alone has its downfalls, but you can't oversell the fact that no one can hear you scream. Or whine childishly, as the case may be.

Varric Tethras was already so fucking tired of having to pretend to be somebody else. He liked who he was. He liked the smarmy, sharp, shit-eating bastard that he saw in the mirror, and he hated having to cover that guy up for anything.

Varric Tethras™ wouldn't be able to refer to Nicolas Sparks as "Grandfather Heterosexuality" like Varric Tethras would want to. 

Varric Tethras™ wouldn't be able to clap back at people who talked down to him when Varric Tethras would find a choice verb for an allusion to their secretary that would end their marriage.

Varric Tethras™ would have to chuckle along to ignorant jokes or lie politely when some fetishizer asked him questions about thaigs and castes and shit that had never applied to him, where Varric Tethras would just snatch their assumptions out through their throat.

Maker's _balls._

At least Haske would be there, if he could get his brain off her tits. Maybe they could make a game out of it, count how many people they'd tip to Fenris to clear out their offshore accounts.

And it would be beyond satisfying for her to turn the heads of the rich and arrogant only to rebuff them in favor of Varric.

He rolled over, wrapping himself up in the duvet. 

A professional liar, tired of being dishonest. Some real corny shit. If he'd written it, Cassandra would tell him it was too stupid to sell. But even the best con men get tired of the grift eventually, and it seemed like lie after facade after mask, put there for better or worse, made it so that he could never be fully himself with anyone. Except for Hawke. And now all that was turned up to the umpth, a whole night of suffocating under the cake makeup of Varric Tethras™, standing next to the one person he wished he could--

_"WHAT'S NEW PUSSYCAT, WHOAHWHOAHOHO"_

Varric sat up like a rocket and ripped his phone off the charger.

"You changed your ringtone again, you rotted fucking--" he said.

Hawke cackled. "WHOAHWHOAHOHO WOAAAHHH."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT'S NEW, PUSSYCATS?
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments! They fuel me, truly. I'm just chugging along on your good vibes, and I'm so grateful.
> 
> See you very soon!


	7. In Tatter-Tatters You're Entrancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Varric talk on the phone and nothing happens, no really, don't worry about it, nothing is wrong here haha.

"Hateable," said Varric. "You're unlikeable. What do you want."

_ "Pussycat pussy cat, I love you, yess I doooo,"  _ Hawke crooned. A car horn blared as she snickered.

"Hanging up, bye Hawke."

"Nooo. Who else is going to walk me home?"

They did this when she had to walk to the Metro at night: she'd call, he'd complain, and then he'd stay on the phone with her until she was home. And usually after that. She liked the company, and it deterred any scumbags from getting stupid ideas--regardless of the fact that those ideas would only result in a scumbag spending the night searching under chairs for his teeth.

Varric sighed, leaning back into the duvet. He found himself already smiling; he might as well have been curling his hair with a finger and giggling. "Where are you coming from, anyway?" he said.

"Ugh. I ate the last of Bethany's  _ vegan cheese _ ."

"Why?"

"Yeah. Imagine my desperation. And instead of seeing this as a cry for help she made me go all the way out to that health food store in Hightown--at fuck late at night, Varric, there are  _ ruffians  _ at this hour--to buy her more."

"Healthy Hightown types stay up late, huh?"

"I caught them closing." She sniffed. "Deactivating the almonds for the night."

He snorted.

"So what are you up to?" she asked. "Primping and polishing for tomorrow?"

"Just the regular spitshine," he shrugged. "They're not worth me at my best."

"Are any of us?"

"Probably not. I'd be too powerful," he said. "Seeker called though. Apparently she's trying to get  _ Swords and Shields  _ optioned."

"What, for a movie?"

Varric picked at a hangnail. "Yeah."

Hawke whistled. "We'd better figure out which fork goes where tomorrow then, huh?"

He hummed.

"Uh," said Hawke, "how big a deal is that? Pretty big?"

He shrugged. "Pretty big," he said.

A turnstile beeped as she scanned her pass.

"You're not allowed to be nervous," he said. "You're my rock, remember? My cock-block rock."

She giggled but seemed unconvinced.

He sat up, stretching and leaning his head back on the headboard. "I got it, though. Just worry about showing up and, you know."

"Stopping the hearts of men and dwarves alike with my dazzling blues and hypnotizing tits?"

Varric coughed slightly. "Yeah," he said.

There was a pause. 

He heard her swallow. "Hm?"

A joke ought to go here, he knew. 

"You think I should do a hair mask tonight?" he said instead.

Hawke barked a laugh. "What's a  _ hair  _ mask?"

He swung his legs out of bed, padding into the bathroom. "It's like a face mask. It's this goop you put in your hair for a while and it makes it all soft and shiny."

He could hear the tinny announcement of her train approaching.

"Your hair is already soft and shiny," she said. She swallowed again, trying to chuckle around it.

"Yeah, but even perfection can be improved upon," he said.

"Pretty sure that doesn't track, semantically."

"Maybe. Get back to me when you're the best selling author between us." He fished the packet of goop out of a drawer. 

They spent the rest of Hawke's commute like that. Varric complained that the mask was too tingly, Hawke guessed it had gone off and all his hair will have all fallen out in the morning. She told him about the cheese argument she'd had with Bethany ("She's a nurse, Hawke--" "She's my sister, I'm  _ supposed _ to be a bitch to her."), and he told her about how he and Leliana had annoyed about ten years off the Seeker's life. 

Eventually, he could hear the jingling of her keys; the fridge door opened and closed as she put her groceries away while he rinsed the mask out of his hair. She told him some gossip Nora had picked up as she brushed her teeth ("An' dey wuh  _ woomates. _ "). He pulled up a review of the Pavus translation he was up against and read it aloud to her while she changed.

She snorted, far away, probably on speaker. "Sounds pretentious as fuck."

"It sounds amazing," sighed Varric. "Don't be nice to me."

"It does sound amazing." She plopped onto her mattress with a  _ whump.  _ "So. What are we doing to get this spotlight thing Cassandra wants done? Honestly, I don't see how they could be any more sopping wet for you than they are now."

He puffed a breath. "Same as we were going to do, I guess. The, you know."

"Cock block, razzle-dazzle thing?"

"Yeah. You catch eyes, I stand next to you and pretend to be… I don't know. Maybe if we just kind of lean into this thing we can catch enough attention to make the Seeker happy."

Hawke hummed. "Snuggle up a little bit, a double entendre here and there. Are you sure you can handle this turned up to eleven, dwarf?"

He tried again to say something funny, but nothing came. "Probably not," he said.

Hawke chuckled hollowly, just filling the space where a laugh should go. "Uhm. Mm," she said.

Varric's heart stuttered. "Uh."

"Hah. Well. You'll uh," said Hawke. She trailed off.

"Yeah," he said, too serious. "Yeah, I know. I've been thinking about it."

There was a terrifying, scream-wrenching pause. Varric almost just hung up.

"Oh?" she said, finally. Varric could have cried.

"Yeah," he said. "Uh, just, you. You looked good, in that dress."

"I always look good," said Hawke distantly.

Varric was almost sure that he was having the conversation he thought he was having, and he was nearly positive that Hawke was having the same conversation.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

Neither of them said anything.

"Where's this coming from, Tethras?"

He was sure the blush on his face was going to overheat his phone and burn the building down. "A dwarf's got eyes, is all," he tried. 

He heard a shuffle of sheets. "Mhm. A girl does too, you know."

Varric's dick perked up at that, inscrutably. He ground his teeth, frantically flipping through his mental Rolodex of tension-breaking jokes. Something about being hawk-eyed, maybe, but no that--

"You ever been with a human before?" said Hawke. Somewhere a bed creaked.

"Uh," said Varric. "Haven't we talked about this?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh. Well. I haven't," he said. "Been with a human."

"Why not?" she said.

Varric swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. He considered doing the "psshh, sorry, you're breaking up, pssshhh" trick but figured she knew him too well. This is why you don't fuck friends, they already see through your bullshit. And they hadn't even fucked yet.

His mind screeched to a halt at the thought of "yet" and he barely managed "Uh, hmm?" as a response.

"Why haven't you been with a human?" She sounded so close, her voice was soft and conspiratorial--pillow talk. How had that happened? Muffled by a blanket? He imagined her curled up and warm. He reeled at finding himself wondering what she was wearing.

She was going to kill him.

He rolled over onto his stomach in hopes of distracting his bizarrely hopeful cock. He felt like a lech, but there was no way out but forward. "Oh you know," he said. "Legs. And there hasn't been anyone, really, at all, in a long time. You know that."

"Legs," Hawke hummed. He heard her chewing on her lip and he shuddered to think what was connecting in her head. He hadn't exactly been subtle the other day, he knew that. He'd hoped she figured he was just spaced out thinking about the awards. 

"Varric…" she said.

His stomach sank.  _ Well. Here we are _ , he thought. There was something of finality in the silence that followed. Either she was going to crack a joke, blow it off and ignore the dreamy look she'd see in his eyes for the rest of their lives; he could moon in peace, safe in mutual feigned ignorance.

Or, more likely at this point, she was going to say something torturously kind and understanding about friendship and loyalty despite it all, and it would be the first slow step away as she backed out of his life like a hostage negotiator. He scrambled for a lie, an excuse, anything, but she didn't give him the time.

"You know," she mused, "there's a lot you can do with legs."

His mind stopped short, tripping over itself. "Walking?" he said.

He heard her mattress groan again as she shifted. "Good for leverage," she said, ignoring him. "Good for…" She paused, considering. There was another squeak from the mattress, as if she was testing as she spoke. "Anchoring. I can tell you with certainty you haven't lived before you've had your head trapped between a tall woman's thighs."

Varric coughed, spluttering.

"Woof," she continued. "You really ought to give it a try. Being boxed in by two long, thick thighs as someone rides your face? The power, the surety, fully engulfed in the feel of them. A leggy person is good for riding, too--the  _ leverage,  _ Varric." 

The sudden use of his name made him shiver.

"--and good for bending to find  _ angles _ . Get creative about where you put those legs and you can really get  _ in  _ someone. There was this one guy,  _ great  _ arms, and you wouldn't think that would make a difference, but when you add  _ lift  _ into the equasion..." She trailed off, humming. "You'd be surprised what a height difference can do when you put your mind to it."

They'd talked about Hawke's dates before, but Varric had never been confronted by the images floating behind his eyes like this. Her soft, sleepy voice painting pictures of her above him, riding his face, below him as he found whatever  _ angles  _ she had found with--

The heat that had been building in Varric's stomach spiked with jealousy. He cleared his throat against it. "So you've been with a dwarf?" 

"Hmm," said Hawke. "One or two."

"And uh."  _ Who. _ "What'd you think?"

She paused to think. 

"Strong core muscles. And the  _ arms.  _ And the angle you can get in missionary  _ without  _ the legs in the way is…" She sighed. "You put a pillow under the ass and just really see the eyes of the Maker. Though I don't think I've had a wide enough experience to give a fully informed opinion."

Varric thought he might pass out with no blood to spare for his brain between his face and his dick, but Hawke just barrelled on.

"I've been giving the whole thing a lot of thought lately, actually," she said casually. "I was wondering about getting eaten out while standing up, maybe pinned against a wall with my legs over their shoulders, that sounds fun. I love being lifted, and think how fun that would be without having to worry about my head hitting the ceiling."

There was a long minute while Varric did think about it before he remembered that he was expected to say something. 

"Oh, uh. Uh-huh?" he croaked.

Hawke had the loudest poker face Varric had ever come across. It made her an easy mark during Wicked Grace, but right now he could  _ hear  _ her biting her smug little smile, and it was making him sweat.

"You should get some rest, Tethras," she said, after a time. "Big day tomorrow."

"Big day," he nodded. 

"Mhmm" she said. "'Night, Varric."

He swallowed. The way she'd said his name sent a shiver through him. "'Night," he said.

Neither of them hung up; n either of them said anything.

He looked down at his phone, watching the seconds on the call tick by. He could hear her breathing lightly, shifting in bed on the other side of the call. Just silent, just listening to the sounds of each other's bodies in their beds.

The call disconnected suddenly, and he tossed his phone to the foot of the bed like it had burned him. 

"WHAT THE FUCK!" A dog downstairs started howling.

He just--she had just--Did they...

Does it count as phone sex if-- No, he hadn't even  _ said  _ anything. He'd just stuttered like an idiot while she told him… Sweet Ancestors. It wasn't even that steamy, like the dress, but it was just soft, and intimate and  _ Hawke _ . And probably she didn't even mean it like that, maybe she was just being candid with a friend. He'd heard dirtier stuff out of Isabela, and that hadn't left him like  _ this. _

He slammed his head back against the headboard _. _ He squeezed his eyes shut, willing down a wildly insistent erection. He groaned and covered his eyes with his arm, snaking a hand down into his sweatpants, feeling like a man facing the firing squad.

Fuck, but the thought of her sitting on his face. Her thighs spread wide, head thrown back. Hands in his hair, yanking, rutting against his face as she wailed. She'd ride his fingers as he lapped at her like a drowning man, trapped and euphoric, face buried in her. He wondered what she tasted like, how it might feel to pull her down into a kiss with his chin still dripping.

And she would be impossibly wet, he'd make sure of that, given the chance. He'd lick her open, find the core of that infuriating, scorchingly brilliant woman and show her with his tongue how much he needed her, and then he'd pull her down, flip them over so that he could get between those long thighs, trembling, he'd make her come before either of them even touched him, and he'd sink into the heat of her while she--

He came with a shout. He hadn't even gotten his cock out his pants yet, for fuck's sake. He stripped them off and threw them across the room, and threw himself back under the duvet peevishly.

Idiot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bethany, later: I SAID TALK, NOT SEDUCE.  
> Hawke: theyarethesamepicture.jpg
> 
> Thanks for vibing and keeping it tight out there; hope you're all doing well!


	8. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A watched pot never realizes it's in love with the other, shorter, equally smitten pot.

As the years float by they wear smooth the edges of people who pass them together. Some days get wrinkled and soft around the edges, the memories well-loved in teasing and retelling and favors earned.

The morning before Isabela and Merrill's wedding, when, bizarrely, _Anders_ became nervous to the point of vomiting: Varric had to hold his hair back in the parking lot while Merrill, in her wedding dress, ran soothing circles between his shoulders.

The Summerday night when Fenris and Bela had broken into Bethany's ex's house to take back all of the stuff she'd left and he refused to give back. They got distracted and started lifting things they liked (Bela: an old N64 for Nora's kid and a pint of ice cream from the freezer. Fenris: a small, interesting-looking lamp.), only to be interrupted by the sudden appearance of Avaline, who was answering a break-in report from some neighbor. Bela had paid her off with a jar of the ex's gourmet artichokes and a kiss on the cheek, and they'd loaded everything into the police cruiser, Avaline flushed with worry.

The night Sebastian had seen Anders and a date walk out of the bathroom at the Siren together, a large bruise blooming under Anders' ear. Sebastian had nearly throttled the poor date, shouting a stream of broguey nonsense about Anders' friends not being blind and Anders being a grown man but how often Seb had noticed bruises before. When everyone was able to squint through the accent and discern what he was saying, Anders had to drag Seb to a corner to explain what a "kink" was. He'd been unable to meet Anders' eyes without blushing for a month.

But no day was so creased, folded, and unfolded, spread across a table and thumbed over, then the night The Bet started. Not the one about whether or not Seb was bi or the one about Donnick being into puppy play, but _The_ Bet, longest-running and most contentious.

It must have been two, maybe three years ago now. Beth had just broken up with that templar of hers (not he of the misplaced N64, but the stiff one with the pasta hair) and Bela and Merrill were still practically newlyweds.

It was a rare quiet night at the Siren. The group looked up to find themselves together, quite spontaneously, all except Bethany. When they realized that no one had anything to scurry off to, Bela kicked Nora out early for the night (paid, of course, Bela might've been a thief but she wasn't a  _ criminal _ ) and turned out the  **OPEN** sign. Varric pulled a deck of cards out of his coat and Avaline pushed a few tables together. 

Around the third hand of Wicked Grace, Merrill wondered aloud about what exactly an Antivan Iced Tea really was. Bela got up and made her one, talking her through it as she went. Merrill eventually floated behind the bar, caught in her wife's gravity, and their conversation devolved into brushed kisses and laughter as they forced their friends to try Merrill's ideas for new cocktails.

Avaline was going on about some nuance of "freedom of speech" that meant the Guard had to protect zealous, often violent exclusionist protestors while Fenris and Anders drank matching blue-somethings--"Venhedis, woman!" followed by Merrill's clear, bright laughter--and glowered matching glowers at Avaline. 

Sebastian was staring cow-eyed as Hawke laughed at something Varric said. It seemed like it was Seb's turn to be in love with Hawke, though none of their flames really ever went out. How could they? But Sebastian had been thinking about her. 

He was leaning on the table, holding his chin in one hand and using Hawke's interest in Varric's story to study her face. Her laugh got sudden and ugly as she got tipsy, cheeks flushing. Whenever Varric forgot the word for something she cut him off with it, smiling and nodding. She glanced at Seb when Varric got to the good parts, making sure he heard. He was flattered by that at first, taking it for interest, but then--

" _ HERE I GO, HERE I GO, HERE I GO AGAIN--" _

Varric jumped, scrambling in his coat for her phone.

" _ GIRLS, WHAT'S MY WEAKNESS? _ "

"MEN!" called Hawke, Anders, and Bela.

"Fuck's sake, Hawke," Varric laughed, fumbling his phone out. He stood to go take the call, but Hawke laughed and caught him by the collar, pulling him down to plant a kiss on his jaw. Seb saw Varric's face burn up red, but Varric just ducked his head, rolling his eyes and trotting to the bathroom.

Hawke bob-danced across the room to the sound system, singing to herself as she plugged in her phone to play Salt-N-Pepa at full volume, pointing at her friends as she sang along, challenging anyone to try and remember the lyrics as well as she could. 

Anders was staring, looking between Hawke and the direction of the bathroom. Avaline and Merrill were both looking into the middle distance as if trying to suss out a difficult question. Bela just bounced to the song as she brought Hawke another cocktail, mouthing the lyrics with her, though on her way back to the bar Fenris palmed her a twenty behind his back as he typed distractedly on his phone.

Sebastian reviewed the past hour in his mind as he watched Hawke dance and shout. He thought about how Hawke had blushed every time she made Varric laugh. He thought about how Varric had leaned into her with each drink that was pushed into his hand. 

He realized all in a moment that Varric and Hawke had fallen in love with each other at least ten times in the time they'd been sitting there. Seb should know. He'd been trying to fall in love with Hawke right next to them the whole time.

Sebastian sighed, heart breaking gently. 

_ Ding! _ \-- **_bzz_ ** _ \--clang--blip! _

Four phones sounded off as Hawke's phone started to shuffle. ( _ Spinderella cut it up one time!) _

Seb, Merrill, Anders, and Avaline all found themselves added to a group text with Bela and Fenris. They all typed in silence as Hawke bounced around the dance floor alone ( _ Let's talk about sex, baby, / let's talk about you and me _ ) until The Bet was made.

When Varric got back from taking his call he said something about an early morning and threw a thumb toward the door. Hawke rushed to unplug her phone and trot out after him, offering to walk him back to the loft. ("It's late! There are all sorts out at this hour!" "Yeah, us, to say the least." "Exactly!"). The door knocked closed behind them on that cold night like a gavel at an auction.

Bela smirked around the room as she wiped down the counter. She threw Fenris a wink and waggled her eyebrows at Merrill, "As you all know, I do accept payment in kind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a funny little filler this time, friends! Thanks for all your lovely comments, and I'll see you soon for The Dowagers!


	9. You Are the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluetooth speakers and bologna sandwiches

_Saturday_

The look on Bethany's face when she opened the door to Varric was nigh inscrutable, her lips twisted in a mieu of surprise, triumph, and held laughter. 

Varric glanced down at his tux. "I didn't think I looked _that_ bad, Sunshine," he said.

"No, no," Bethany mumbled, behind a bit lip. "No, Varric, you look great. Really. Well, I've got, you know, _work_ , so." 

She was practically vibrating with laughter as she ducked back into the apartment to grab her keys. "Hawke's still in the shower," she said, turning to call down the hall. "MARIAN. VARRIC'S HERE!"

The sound of Hawke giving her best to Donna Summer's "Last Dance" along with her speaker didn't even stutter. Varric smiled a little, the sick feeling in his stomach that had carried him through the day loosening just a bit.

"She's been a mess all day," said Bethany. "A nervous wreck, really--Donna Summer has always been a coping mechanism. Look, Varric." She fixed him with a level eye as she gathered her things into her bag. "She'd not going to do anything, you know that, right?"

"What, like a fight? I hope not, she'll tear her dress." He coughed a laugh, his throat dry.

"She's not going to do _anything_ ," she said, sticking a finger in his face. "You have to do it. No matter what happens, she's too damned stubborn to actually let herself _do_ anything, right? You know that, I know that. So you've got to be the bigger man this time, alright?"

Varric gestured down to himself vaguely. "Not usually my forte."

Bethany swatted him on the cheek. "You're a good man, Varric."

"Alright."

She swung her bag over her shoulder. "Don't be an idiot."

"Okay."

She opened the door. "For both of you, okay?"

"Yeah." No.

"Alright," Bethany smirked. She gave him a light flick on the nose and was gone. The screen door clanged like a cell door behind her.

 _"so let's dance, this last dance, toniiiiight"_ came Donna Summer. 

"SO LeT's daNCE ThiS LaST daNCE, TonIIIIIIIGHT!" screamed Hawke as the sound of the shower cut. Too quickly, the door to the bathroom burst open in a cloud of steam and strawberry-kiwi and the tinny sound of Hawke's broken speaker, and--

Hawke. Pink and flushed from a hot shower, naked but for a towel thrown over her shoulders to catch the drip from her hair, eyes closed as she tried to hit a note, one hand in her ear and the other tracing the note with two fingers in the air.

Varric stood, frozen, caught in the thrall of Hawke's bouncing tits and off-beat hip wiggles. She opened her eyes, ready to address an imaginary audience, and finding a real one.

"Varric, FUCK." She tugged the towel from around her shoulders to at least cover her tits.

"Hawkeshitsorry, fuck--" Spell broken, Varric clapped a hand over his eyes, face burning.

"Fuck's sake, VARRIC," she shouted.

"Sorrysorrysorry," He tried to duck into the living room, hand still over his eyes, "I'm in here, sorry, go--" 

All at once, something furry and heavy knocked into his stomach and he tripped backward back into the hall, where two slightly damp arms came up to save him from smacking his head on the wall. He kept his eyes screwed shut, throwing a hand out behind him to steady himself and catching the door frame, the momentum sending them both crashing sideways into the wall.

As Varric felt himself pushed into Hawke's chest, falling into the scent of her, he was _very_ aware of two breasts pushed to the side of his neck. Behind him, Hawke was shaking with laughter that Varric felt vibrating in his own chest. "Fuck oh my fucking--" she was laughing, taking him by the shoulders to lead him into the next room. The sound of her started his own laughter out of him like a defibrillator to the heart. He felt himself tucked into the living room, and then her hands were gone.

"Hawke, I'm so--"

"Nono, it's really not your fault--"

"I should have--"

"No, no, but _fuck._ " Hawke was laughing almost silently now, the way she did when she couldn't stop and tears began to leak down her face.

Varric leaned against the wall, finally opening his eyes. Strider was wagging his tail up at him, looking pleased with himself. He heard a thump on the other side of the wall as Hawke leaned against it as she got her breath back.

"Your damn dog!" said Varric.

"I know, I know."

"Bethany called out, I thought you knew--"

"I was singing!" she said.

Varric wasn't quite able to bite the smile off his face. "Yeah."

"It's Donna Summer…" said Hawke.

"No, I completely understand."

There was a beat as they both caught their breath, giggling just a little.

"I should get dressed," said Hawke, finally.

"Yeah, probably."

"Oh sweet _Maker_ ," he heard Hawke sigh. "Okay, one sec." Varric heard the door to her room close after a minute and peeked around the corner. The speaker was still echoing from the bathroom.

"You want this?" he called.

"What?"

"The speaker, do you want the speaker?"

A huge, gasping laugh. "No, that's okay. You can put something on if you want." There was a blip as Hawke disconnected her phone from the Bluetooth. 

Varric searched nearby devices for "The Sang-ed Man", shaking his head with a smirk. There was a beat of silence as he scrolled through his phone for music; finding the right mood for a moment after you've seen your best friend's tits turned out to be kind of tricky.

"You, uh--" came Hawke's voice. "Nice suit."

Varric glanced up at himself in the slowly defogging mirror. Oh right. 

"Thanks, yeah. I mean, you were there when I bought it."

"Right, but, you know. Still. Looks nice. You look nice."

"Thanks, Hawke."

There was another beat. Varric tapped shuffle on "Artist: Jens Lekman" at random, desperately. "So we've got a couple of hours until we're due for execution, have you eaten?" he asked.

"I hmman bemberg," came the faint sound of Hawke's voice.

"Hold up, I can't hear you." Varric shuffled over to her door. "What?"

"I had a burger," said Hawke.

"When?"

A pause. "Eleven?"

Varric groaned. "Hawke, it's four."

"They'll serve dinner, right? At least some little fiddly sandwiches."

"Yeah, but not for another few hours. We still have to get through the interviews and the red carpet--"

 _"'Red carpet_ ? _'"_

"Yeah."

"Sweet Andraste," he heard her sigh. "Alright."

"You can still back out, you know. I know it's a lot."

"No, it's fine, I want to go," she said. "I don't want you to be there alone."

Varric leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I…" 

He really meant to say something about being a big boy, or maybe something about hiding behind Cassandra and Leliana instead, but even though it would _drastically_ simplify his evening, he didn't want to imagine walking into that room without Hawke next to him. "Thanks again, Hawke."

"No worries," she groaned like she was bending at an awkward angle.

"You okay in there?" asked Varric.

"Yeah, just zippers."

"You want, uh…"

A pause. "Yeah actually, if you wouldn't mind." Her voice was close to the door now.

"Yeah, no, come on out."

Hawke stepped out after a moment, smiling down at him vaguely. The trumpets of the song kicked out of the bathroom like heraldry. 

Hawke in the Blue Dress, slightly flopped open on one side where it wasn't fully zipped. He tried to focus on her face, but Hawke was there too, smiling blue eyes and a twitch to her lips, and some secret little look Varric couldn't quite place.

He took a deep, steadying breath. Bergamot. Bergamot? Under it was that strawberry-kiwi and toothpaste and Hawke, but there was something else there, spicy and gingery and thick. "You smell nice," he said, automatically.

Hawke's smile deepened as she turned to one side, indicating the zipper. "You think so?"

"Mm," said Varric, forcing his eyes to his own hands, fiddling with the zipper. It was caught up in the thick fabric, and he had to dig his fingers in a little to free it. Shit, she was so warm, and the dress was so soft, and she smelled so fucking _good._ All Varric could think about was just moving the fabric to one side and easily, so simply just pressing his mouth to that warm, rich skin, kissing and licking, trying to find that scent, mouthing over her ribs and making her squirm; gasp.

"What is it?" he said, squinting down at his fingers. "Bergamot? It's nice. Is it bergamot?"

Hawke chuckled, shaking the skin under his hands. "Yeah, maybe, I don't know. It was a present, I just found it in the back of the cabinet."

"Mmn, yeah, good find. Anyway." He hooked a fingernail under the zip and it finally popped free. He pulled it up in one careful, quick movement. "You gotta eat."

"Mph," said Hawke. "I still have makeup to do."

"No worries, I can rustle something up. Am I gonna find anything to give me nightmares if I look in your fridge?"

"I don't think so, but be on your guard." Hawke looked him up and down, then glanced into the kitchen. "You really don't have to, you know. I'm not really hungry."

Varric was already turning away, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a dining room chair. "Yeah, but you will be, and I don't want you moaning away next to me all night."

"Oh?" said Hawke. "You sure?"

He turned to look at her but Hawke had already ducked back into the bathroom, shutting the door. He glanced at the time. He glanced at his suit. He took a long look at the door. And he uncuffed his sleeves and started making a bologna sandwich.

\---

Hawke had never eaten a bologna sandwich in the back of a limousine before. Life was filled with little treasures, she thought. She brushed a crumb or two off the knees of her dress.

Varric was next to her, vaguely watching traffic and seeming the picture of composure save for a knee that just wouldn't stop bouncing. He did look lovely. He'd skipped the vest Bela had picked out for him and wore a plain white shirt, unbuttoned to his solar plexus (of course), which made him look rather wind-swept. The suit itself was a deep green, matte and soft-looking, with a little blue velvet pocket square tucked with artful nonchalance into his top pocket. The cut of his trousers gave him a waist that he'd swear on his dwarven genes he didn't have, setting off his naturally broad shoulders and making him look absolutely roguish. He'd pulled his hair into a loose bun that had become a little frazzled in the humid evening, with little wavy flyaways moving in the wind from the limousine's sunroof. 

Taking a long look at him, Hawke truly had her work cut out for her tonight.

Varric's loafers squeaked as he bounced his leg. He glanced at his phone. "Seeker's already there."

Hawke hummed around her sandwich. "Cassandra's coming?"

Varric nodded. "And Leliana. We'll be seated with them."

"They'll be seated with _us_ ," Hawke smirked. "Belles of the ball already, don't you think?"

Varric glanced over at her, cracking a grin. "Yeah, obviously." 

The limo jerked periodically. The traffic was getting worse as they got closer. Out the window, Hawke could see a small but enthusiastic puddle of fans hurrying in the direction of the venue. "Is there a like, meet and greet aspect at all?"

"No, not officially. It's not like we're gonna get accosted anyway. Bookish fans tend to be a little less rabid, in my experience."

"Well," said Hawke. "Typically, maybe. But tonight, you know, you're all…"

Varric turned to look at her.

She waved a hand, indicating the length of him. "Woof."

"'Woof'?" he grinned.

Hawke nodded, clapping the last of the crumbs off her hands. _"Woof,"_ she insisted.

Varric turned a little pink at that but didn't look away. Little treasures, Hawke thought, smiling at him.

The door next to Varric popped open, making both of them jump. They must have missed the limo pulling up to the curb, and now it was all a flurry of flashing lights and chatter and shouted names eclipsed by Cassandra Penteghast, looking resplendent and _fuming_.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" she hissed.

"Seeker!" Varric cried. Pushing his sunglasses onto his face, the "Varric Tethras: Man About Town" mask slid into place like a door slamming closed. He slid out, offering Hawke a hand to the curb. "I thought we were early! What is it, three?"

Cassandra's eyes flicked around to the cameras around them. She glued on a pained-looking smile and said. "It's 5:30 and you know it you little fucker."

"Oh darn!" said Varric. "We didn't miss the carpet, did we?" He winked at Hawke behind his glasses.

Cassandra laid a companionable hand on Varric's shoulder, tightening it into a death grip. "You have twenty minutes to make the rounds. Dazzle them, dwarf, or I'll skin you and sell your hide to a Hightown widow." She scowled warmly down at him, glancing briefly at Hawke. "Behave. Both of you."

"Hallo Cass!" piped Hawke.

Cassandra turned with a trademark scoff and sauntered back to the side of the carpet, where Leliana stood holding two flutes of champagne and a genuine smile for Hawke. Hawke waved.

"She's so pissed!" whispered Hawke.

"She's _so_ pissed," murmured Varric. They giggled.

" _Tethras_ \-- **Master Tethras!!** \--Varric!-- **_Master Tethras_ **!" A choir of shouts built up around them as all the flashing cameras angled their way.

Varric grinned at them manically. "Aw shit," he mumbled. "Hawke, we can still leave. Think of something, it's not too late."

"We've got this, darling," she said and bent to press a lingering kiss on his cheek.

He glanced at her, reddening again.

"Gotta start selling it now," she shrugged. She took his hand--pleasantly warm, if a little sweaty--and tossed him a little wink of her own. 

"Well," said Varric. He took one last, sighing breath. "Let's cut a rug."

Hawke laughed and followed him into the fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strike up the band, friends, we're gonna party next chapter! Thanks for your sweet comments, and I'll see you soon!
> 
> Varric's suit: 
> 
> https://images.app.goo.gl/oXhrrdEpWRYXqM5Q9
> 
> Varric's hair:
> 
> https://images.app.goo.gl/Mfcprp6D7r9ZmLCb8
> 
> The song that Varric plays in the bathroom:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zn8t2cH8-UI  
> (if you think Varric Tethras wouldn't have a 4-hour playlist of songs that remind him of Hawke I have nothing to say to you)
> 
> My love for you: right here, baby


End file.
